Between the Shadow and the Soul
by valiantmongoose
Summary: Outtakes from my AU "Certain Dark Things". Will begin with what happens to Jay post-Certain Dark Things, but will eventually include all the one-shots you guys requested. If you want anything new, just pop it in a review or let me know on tumblr :) Rated M for certain stories, but I'll give warnings in each chapter!
1. Chapter 1

**This is the first part of Jay's post-Certain Dark Things story. It got a little out of hand, and since I didn't want to rush through (but I also don't want to divide it all up into a million chapters) it's going to be released in three parts. They all kind of have a discrete story line, so it should flow relatively well. Enjoy :)**

**Bleeding Out: Part I **

* * *

"And that's the last box. Thank God." Emma drops the box, which is carefully taped and labeled "Books – nonfiction" in purple sharpie, on the floor of my new kitchen. "May you never move again," she adds, raising her hands toward the ceiling in supplication.

"No immediate plans," I answer, picking up the box and placing it neatly against the wall. I ignore her pointed look and take out my box-cutter and make a quick slice through the layers of tape. "Don't want to stay and help pack it away, do you?"

"I'm thinking no." She takes a seat on one of the high-legged chairs and fans herself with a take-out brochure from her purse. "I've done my sisterly duty for the next five years, at least. Plus, I should really get on the road. Many miles to go before I sleep and all that."

"Poetry?" I ask, wrinkling my nose.

"Poetry," she says with a nod. "Something you should consider. Beautiful house on the water, the sound of the waves in the backyard – it's the perfect place to write poetry."

I start taking the books out of the box and piling them on the table in small stacks. "If only I were a twelve-year-old girl."

Emma picks up one of the books and knocks me on the head with it. "You mean instead of a sexist ass?"

"Fine," I mutter, massaging the top of my head. "I'm not a twelve year old boy. My point is that the last thing I need right now iswhimsical fluff_. _What I need is structure."

"Mmm, yes, definitely. You live such a lackadaisical life." She pulls open the fridge, making another face when she finds it empty. She rubs her hand over the small bump of her belly, still barely discernable despite her efforts to maximize it. "I'm so hungry. First you work me to death, and then you try to starve me. You're really not looking forward to having a nephew, are you?"

I hold up the book that I've just taken out of the box – _Your child's emotional and Behavioral Development_ – and smile. "On the contrary, I'm more prepared than you. You haven't picked up a single thing."

"Uh, four years of medical school? I've seen what happens to pregnant women, and I am doing everything in my power to repress the experience, thank you very much."

"Yeah, that's probably for the best." I put the book back in its pile and continue unpacking the box. "Although I'm sure it's easy compared to the rest of it: up all night with a screaming baby; changing hundreds of diapers; getting thrown up, pooped, and peed on; and always knowing, in the back of your mind, that your life doesn't run by your schedule." I shudder, mulling the prospect over. "Sounds like hell."

"You really are a ray of sunshine. Anyway, you said that about having a pet, too. You changed your mind."

"Yeah, but the dogs were more…"

"Alec," Emma says, her nostrils flaring. "You're not going to be able to get over this if you still can't mention him by name."

"Fine._ Alec._ He took care of the dogs most of the time. They were kind of like nephews in that way – cute and fun to play with, but I always knew someone else was ultimately responsible for their well-being." I pick through the spines of the books, looking for a picture I tucked away to ensure it didn't wrinkle. I find it trapped between the pages of a French-English dictionary, and take it out and pin it up on the fridge.

"I still think you should drive straight there and take them," Emma says, glaring at the picture. "They were your dogs too. I can't _believe _he just took off to New Zealand and didn't even ask you to take care of them."

"I was pretty clear about not contacting me, Emma. Plus, it's not like you would have let me answer the phone even if he did call."

"He could have written me an email," she sniffs. "It was a just a dick move, okay? Stop defending him."

"I'm not defending him, I just – "

Emma snorts – a cruel, hard sound that comes from the back of her throat – and turns back to the books. I take an armful and carry them to the solid oak bookshelf that sits in the living room. Emma takes a few and sticks them into the shelf haphazardly, and I follow behind her, arranging them into alphabetical order.

"Okay, hint taken," she says, gathering up her purse and keys. "Time for me to get out."

"Hey." I reach out and grab her shoulders, pulling her close to me. "Thank you," I whisper. "For everything."

"You don't ever need to thank me," she says, her breath hitching. "You promise you're gonna be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Emma. I've got lectures to plan and a house to set up. I won't have time to be not-okay."

Emma draws back and cups my face in her hands, her eyes shining. "Just – just don't get bogged down in work, okay? Just go outside, see the light, or something."

"Surfboard is in the basement, Em."

"Okay, well, I guess this is it." She wipes a stray tear from her cheek. "Fuck Alec for leaving," she sniffles. "And fuck this pregnancy for making me so damn emotional."

"Me moving didn't have anything to do with Alec leaving. If anything, I spent more time with you than I would have if things had worked out."

Emma dabs at her eyes with a spare tissue. "Stop –"

"Defending him, I know," I finish. "It's just instinctual at this point. And mom doesn't make it any easier. She keeps asking when he's coming back. As if I would know."

Emma's eyes flash as she tosses the tissue in the garbage. "Fuck mom, too," she says. "She thinks Alec is a bloody saint just because he's a Lightwood." She turns toward me, brandishing her keys like a weapon. "I don't care when he's coming back, and neither should you. I don't know if she thinks you would just welcome him back with open arms. This isn't a summer blockbuster, where people go off any _find themselves_; it's real life. It's your life."

"I think she just misses him." I picture him, the way his hair used to fall into his eyes as he read, and my heart squeezes painfully. "She's allowed to miss him."

Emma wraps her arms around me again, knowing that I'm not really talking about mom. "I just don't want her to have her hopes up." She pulls back and looks at me, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. "It's not healthy."

"Yeah, she knows that." I pause for a second, and then add quietly. "I know that."

Emma leans in for one last hug before starting her journey back to Nevada. "You'll find someone who deserves you," she says. "Someone who loves you properly. I promise."

I smile and walk her back to the car, knowing that any other reaction would just hurt her feelings; I know she takes it as a personal affront that her not-so-subtle attempts at psychotherapy haven't had much benefit. But I can't help it. I know, as strongly as I did when I left for Emma's that first night, that if Alec showed up at my door next week I would let him right back into my life as if nothing had happened.

* * *

The first couple of days pass quickly, and I don't have time to think of Alec. I spend my afternoons at the university, planning my lectures. The work is satisfying; hours pass, and I don't realize how long I've been working until my neck starts to cramp and I look outside to find it's already dusk.

The house starts to come together by the end of the first week. Most of the furniture had been delivered while I was still at Emma's; it was only a matter of rearranging and finding matching accessories.

By the time that I run out of ways to occupy my mind, the fall semester is about to start. I've been assigned a single class – contracts – without a TA, since I'm still expected to maintain a halftime practice through the university, but it still seems a little overwhelming. I've been in the courtroom since I graduated, and I don't know how smoothly I'll be able to make the transition to teaching. The night before I'm due to start my nails have been chewed down to stumps, and when I'm taking the penne off the stove to drain, I trip over one of the grooves in the floor I haven't yet had time to get used to, and drop the entire pot on my foot.

I curse loudly, glad for the first time that there are no dogs underfoot. Undoubtedly Kipling would try to see what was wrong, and Hector always hated when anyone yelled. The sudden memory stings as much as the burn, and I hop to the bathroom on one foot, resisting the urge to go back out and just chuck the entire pot in the garbage.

"Polysporin," I mutter, poking through the medicine cabinet. "Where are you, where are you?" I can't find anything to put on my foot, so I take a facecloth out of the drawer by the sink and press that over the inflamed skin, hissing when the pain flares. I pull out my cell and dial Emma – psychiatrist or not, she has enough basic medical training to deal with a scalded foot – but she doesn't pick up.

I toss the phone to the floor with a grunt and hobble out to get my keys. Cursing my own stupidity for not picking up antibiotic ointment in the first damn place, I pull on my coat and storm through the door, not bothering to even tie my shoes. Unfortunately, the mistake is costly, as I trip over the curb and straight into a dude who's out walking his dog. The two of us go down in a tangle of limbs, with his dog's leash binding us together.

"I'm so sorry," I say, extricating myself and then helping him to his feet. "I forgot to do up my shoes."

The guy grins and I'm momentarily stunned by how much he looks like Alec. He has the same wispy black hair, though it's long enough to curl around his jaw, and bright blue eyes. His lips are puckered and so red that he must make a habit of chewing on them, and his front teeth are slightly crooked. He's wearing a grey-woolen beanie despite the heat, and I make a move to tell him how ridiculous that is, but he interrupts me before I have the chance.

"No problem at all," he says in a smooth British accent. "You may, in fact, turn around and do it again, if it means that you'll stick around a few moments longer."

He holds out his hand and I shake it tentatively. "Thomas," he says, grinning again. "Thomas Werther. I live in the house just round the bend. I saw you moving in with your wife last week."

His fingers linger in mine, and I wonder why, if he thinks I have a wife, he's so intent on flirting. "I don't have a wife," I answer, drawing my hand back quickly. "That was my sister, Emma."

"Really?" The smirk is back and he takes a step closer, pulling his dog along with him. "I never would have guessed. You don't look much alike."

"So what? You thought you'd come and chat up a married man? Classy." I walk around him in the direction of the 24-hour pharmacy I saw on my drive back yesterday. I hear the clicking of dog's nails against the pavement and turn to find that Thomas Werther is following me.

"Did you want something?" I ask, turning around abruptly and nearly forcing a second collision. "Because I'm actually quite busy."

"Come on gorgeous," he says with a quirk of his red lips. "Don't be like that. I was only trying to be polite."

"By hitting on me? Someone you thought was straight?"

"See, so you are gay! Now that is excellent news." He picks up his pace, jogging to keep up with my long strides. "Although it's fun when they're married, too. Makes for a bit of excitement. All hush-hush and secret rendezvous." He keeps jogging until he's a little ahead of me, then turns to walk backward so that we're face to face. He smiles as I scowl. "My, but you are gorgeous."

"I'm flattered, really, but I don't think it's going to happen."

"Why, not your type?" He smirks, and I get the feeling he's used to be everyone's type.

"Conflict of interests," I correct. "I'm not really interested in anyone who glorifies cheating."

"Hmm, burned bad, were you? That's a pity." He rubs his chin before holding a hand out to my chest. "I can't imagine anyone wanting to pull one over on you." He winks, and I try to dodge around him again. "Listen, gorgeous, – "

"Jay," I interrupt.

"Jay," he amends. "You're are a delight, really. And I think it would be a waste if I had to spend the next two weeks like the last – lost in a haze of lust as you jog past my balcony, all shirtless and sweaty." He smiles into his hands, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. "You worried about cheaters? Don't be. I don't promise anyone something I can't deliver. You seem like you need to blow off a bit of steam, and I am only too happy to oblige."

"A haze of lust?"

His dog whines and he bends down to check on her before answering. "A miasma, even," he says as he rises. "It's been bloody torture."

I push past him, the dull throb of my foot punctuating each step. "Well, sorry to make your stalking so difficult. I would say it was nice to meet you, but I've made it a habit not to lie, even to creepy voyeurs."

"Lovely to meet you too," he calls out before he finally turns back toward his house.

By the time I get back with the Polysporin, reorganize my medicine cabinet, and stew over my conversation with my new neighbor, it's nearly three o'clock, which means I have to be up to get ready for work in three and a half hours. I debate the merits of even going to sleep in the first place, knowing that I'll probably feel like a sack of shit either way, and at least if I stay awake I can get some more work done. But I can't remember where I've put my glasses, and I'm afraid that if I get up without the helpful light of day, they'll end up as bits of plastic and I'll look like an idiot squinting at the chalkboard in the morning.

* * *

I briefly debate throwing my alarm into the wall when it sounds off after what feels like mere minutes later, but the rage is quickly engulfed by an all-encompassing panic. I practically run through the house, gathering up the various things I prepared last night and making sure I'm out the door with plenty of time to get to the university. Once I'm there I take a final glance through my notes before setting off for the classroom.

I get there with ten minutes to spare, but the room is already half full. The keenest students sit at the front, their glasses glowing with the reflection of their laptop screens. Though most of them are my age and some of them even older, they all look impossibly young. They look fresh and unbeaten, and I taste a gush of blood before I realize I'm even chewing on my inner cheek. I push up my glasses and stand at the podium, rifling through my notes and waiting for the second half of the class to finally trickle in.

"My name is James Grayson," I announce as soon as they take a seat. I pick a point at the back of the room – a small imperfection in the paint – and focus on it, pretending that I'm in court instead of a classroom. "You may call me Professor Grayson, or merely Professor." I grab the a stack of the syllabi I've prepared and, ignoring the sharp burn of a paper cut, pass them to the student at the end of the front row. "There is an outline for each of your assignments and I expect you to follow it. There are no excuses for lateness or sloppiness. These three years are all that's left of the bridge between theory and practice, and there's no time to waste."

Satisfied with the introduction, I turn to upload my presentation, only to find that I have no idea how to use the smart board. I glance at the front row, looking at the bespectacled faces, trying to figure out which ones would jump at the opportunity to help and which ones would jump at the opportunity to crucify me. I'm sure most of them would do both. My glasses slip a little down my nose, and I push them up hastily, and make the decision to give none of them the pleasure. I stand at the podium and start lecturing unaided.

I get lost in the lecture, not noticing the time until someone coughs loudly, breaking my train of thought. Emma had insisted it was a waste of time to spend hours memorizing case files when I had the use of the internet, and I can't wait to get back to the house and tell her how wrong she was. I look up and out at the sea of faces, only to realize that most of them look half-asleep. There's one in the back row who's face down in his backpack, not even pretending to look involved.

"Does anyone have any questions?" I ask, readjusting my glasses.

A young girl near the front, with wide brown eyes and a feverish sort of intensity, leans forward. "Is your mother really Marina Grayson?" she asks. For the first time in my full seventy-five minutes of lecturing, the class is rapt.

"That question is neither appropriate nor relevant," I answer promptly. "Please read the cases I've outlined in the syllabus before the next class." I turn and walk through the door before any of them have a chance to respond, hoping that the next class will be better.

It isn't.

In fact, despite my best efforts, the classes keep getting worse. I spend hours in the lecture hall trying to master the smart board, only to upload a presentation of Alec's about proper maintenance of hamster cages he gave to a group of grade school children in Las Vegas. I spend hours obsessing over my hand flapping, cheek-biting, and worn-down nails – habits I had broken years ago, with Alec's help – only to find them worse than they had ever been when I was a student. Perhaps the worst thing is that I just can't find a way to make my students interested. I spend countless hours researching lecture materials, case files, learning activities, only have to field a dozen questions about my mother and her landmark cases.

It's hard to believe that six months ago I had everything I wanted: a thriving practice, a beautiful house with the kitchen of my dreams, and the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Now I live with the sound of the ocean taunting me as I spend my waking hours preparing for a job I can't get right, killing myself for students who think the most worthwhile contribution I've made to their education is the five proper steps to cleaning up hamster crap, and wasting the nights staring at the ceiling from the gigantic bed I always thought I'd be sharing with Alec.

In my blind stupidity I vow that things can't possibly get worse.

I am a fucking idiot.

* * *

I'm about to order Chinese when the phone rings – my mother.

She doesn't even give me time to answer before she starts talking. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice is high and shrill, and I have the overwhelming urge to tell her to get back to me after she's had a drink.

"Yes, it's true. I _did_ watch Centre Stage for the fourth time this week last night. So sorry for not clueing you in." I nearly slice my finger on the corner of my desk and make a mental note to file it down later.

"About Alexander," she says, her voice dangerously low. "Don't play coy with me, young man. You didn't tell me he was back, and I was completely unprepared to run into him at Lightwood Corp this morning."

I slip and slice my palm open on the sharpened corner, cursing away from the phone so that my mother can't hear me. "You saw him?" I ask, my throat dry. "In New York City."

"He's been home for over a month and you didn't think to _tell _me? I expect this kind of behavior from your sister, James, but not from you."

I try to sit up and knock over the glass of water that's in front of me. It shatters as soon as it hits the floor, and in my rush to clean it up, I end up putting a piece through my heel. "Dammit," I hiss, throwing the phone on the table while I reach over to grab the towel hanging from the stove.

"James?" My mother's voice echoes through the spacious kitchen. "James, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom," I say, wincing as I press the towel to my heel. "It was nothing."

"You've never been one for histrionics, so please don't start. Wouldn't want to give Emma a reason to start spouting her psychobabble now, would you?"

"Mom, I'm kind of busy right now." Busy with another episode of House Hunters International, but she doesn't need to know that.

"Of course you are. You're too busy to pick up the phone to tell your mother that your fiancé –"

"Ex-fiancé."

She sighs. "That your _ex-fiancé _is back in town, and I had to run into him at a corporate function. I was flabbergasted, James. Absolutely taken aback. I could have used a little forewarning."

I hobble across the kitchen, having soaked through the small towel. "You and me both," I grind out as I try to locate the piece of glass.

"Don't try to pretend that you didn't know," she says. "I already talked to your sister. You told her over a week ago."

"I didn't tell…you mean, Emma knew? She knew that he was back?" I don't know what hurts more: the pain of knowing Alec didn't come rushing to California like I'd hoped or Emma's betrayal.

"Yes, she knew he was back. She talked to the veterinary student he had taking care of the dogs, the one who forwarded your mail? Lovely young man."

I can't see any reason why my mother would lie. She may be fanatical in her need to control everything and unrelenting in her belief that Alec and I should be together, but she's never been a liar.

"I really didn't know, Mom," I whisper. "Emma didn't tell me."

"Oh, sweetheart," she says softly. I'm not fooled by the maternal charade – the woman is as cuddly as a porcupine, and if she's simpering like this, then there's definitely an ulterior motive. "Maybe you should take a trip home. Just for a weekend. It would do you well to get out of that heat for a few days."

Bingo.

"I can't, Mom. I just have too much work to do." I pause, running my fingers over the surface of my skin. "Does he – does he look well?"

"Quite well." I can almost hear her smiling over the phone. "And don't you think everyone didn't notice. There was this little tart that barely left him alone all night."

My hand slips as I'm picking at the glass, pushing it even deeper.

"Magnus somebody or other," she sniffs, clearly unimpressed. "James, I think that you should really consider what you're letting happen here. Do you want Alec to be taken in by one of these gold-diggers? Some underwear model with straw for brains?"

"Magnus is not an underwear model," I say quietly. That's the reason why Alec didn't come running to California. He was running toward Magnus instead.

"Whatever he is, he's irrelevant. He's not _you._ And I think you need – "

"What I need is for you to stop!" I slam my foot on the ground, but the jolt of pain just makes me angrier. "Magnus is a stripper, Mom. Not a model, not a social climber, a fucking stripper! Alec _cheated _on me. He cheated on me and then he ran away and now, apparently, he's back. He's back with Magnus and me coming to New York is not going prove anything. The only thing more pathetic than getting dumped for a glorified go-go dancer is to go crawling back to New York. Now, if you'll forgive me, I have half a glass stuck in the bottom of my foot and should really get to the doctor."

"I refuse to believe it," my mother says, completely unruffled by my outburst. "Alec would never."

"No, you don't think so? Why don't you just ask him your fucking self, then?" I don't bother waiting for a reply, instead throwing the phone directly at the wall. The sound of the screen shattering is more than a little gratifying, but still not enough. I kick my chair out of the way, prompting another white-hot pulse of pain. "Fuck!"

I rest my head on my folded arms and take three deep breaths before walking to the bathroom to wrap some gauze around my foot. Tiny droplets of blood pepper the hardwood, but I don't even care to wipe them up. Not bothering to cover the cut with anything else, I slip into my flip-flops and head out to the car.

I'm just about to climb in when I hear a familiar British accent. "Jay!"

Excellent. Thomas. Fucking. Werther.

I twist around to find him standing in front of my driveway, wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts slung low on his hips. His black hair is dripping wet and there's a guy next to him holding a surfboard and looking supremely bored.

"Aww, don't be like that." He walks up with his friend trailing behind. "Jay, this is Théo." He mangles the French accent so badly that I'm surprised his friend doesn't just let the board drop on his head.

I narrow my eyes, but Thomas just laughs. "He's not married, I promise. Just an old college roommate."

I turn to say hi, but get distracted by a cloud of cigarette smoke. Coughing, I wave my hand around to try to dispel some of the stench. I stare at Thomas's friend, wondering how on earth someone who's so fit can take part in such a filthy habit. "Smoking is really bad for you."

"Huh," Théo says, taking another draw and blowing the smoke out slowly. "Imagine that. They should put that on the package."

The rolling sound of his g's and the way his stylish pants rest on his ass would no doubt be a turn-on in any other situation, but all I can concentrate on right now is the cigarette smoke. Combined with the blood loss, it's making me more than a little light-headed, and to my absolute embarrassment, I fall forward into Thomas.

"Woah, Princess," he says, slowly lowering me until I'm nestled carefully on the sidewalk, my back propped against a tree. "No need to swoon."

"Fuck you," I slur, my head swimming. "I'm bleeding."

He glances down and finds the blood-soaked gauze and is suddenly serious. "Jesus, Jay. What happened?"

"Business end of a glass," I mumble, slumping back against the tree. I've never been the best with the blood.

"All right, we'll get Théo to take a look at it, he's a lifeguard."

"A lifeguard?" I try to stand, but manage to slump against Thomas's shoulder instead.

"That's the ticket," he says with a grin. "Should have known it would take a little sweat and blood to get you cuddled up in here."

"That's just, way beyond inappropriate." I feel a prodding at my foot, and look down to find Théo rooting at the gauze, his cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Don't blow smoke in my cut."

"Charmant," he mutters, and then launches into a stream of French that's too quick for my limited one-semester-in-college experience. "Okay," he says, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. "He's going to need a doctor."

I glance up from my position on Thomas's shoulder, and notice that from this angle I can almost pretend that he's Alec. They have the same sharp jaw and black hair. Even the long, pale fingers that are currently taking my pulse look the same. "I don't think I can drive," I moan.

"Neither can you," Théo says, handing the board over to Thomas. "You've been drinking and everyone else is going to show up soon."

"I'll call a cab," I say. I dig around in my pockets, only to remember that my phone is currently in pieces against my kitchen wall. "Fuck, I forgot. I killed my phone."

"Was it smoking?" Théo grins and then takes his cigarette and crushes it beneath his shoe with exaggerated slowness. "There." His voice is like a throaty purr. "Now let's get you to a doctor."

It's not until we're halfway down the block that I realize what a colossally stupid idea this is. Everything I know about Thomas wouldn't fill an index card, and I know even less about Théo. He could be some kind of serial killer, driving me to the outskirts of town to harvest my organs. I think of Alec and Magnus, who are probably curled up in Alec's apartment in New York, watching whatever geeky movie Alec has picked out, with Kipling and Hector curled up at their feet, and I almost wish that he was. My blood curdles with every new image my traitorous brain conjures up, and I think that maybe my organs are a lot more trouble than they're worth.

It doesn't take long for me to get stitched up and sent on my merry way with a prescription for painkillers. Théo runs into the pharmacy to pick up the pills, leaving me to bask in the air-conditioned car.

He chucks the pills onto my lap as he shuts the door, and I notice that he's smoking another cigarette. He rolls down a window, as if that's going to actually do anything to save my car from the smell, and just stares back when I glare at him.

"Throw that out," I demand when he doesn't seem to get the message.

He reluctantly obliges. "But of an ungrateful bastard, aren't you?"

"Why, because I don't want lung cancer?"

He just rolls his eyes and pulls carefully out onto the street.

"What is with the French, anyway?" I grumble. "The lot of you smoke like chimneys."

"It's the sensuality of it," he replies, licking his lips. "The French are a very orally-oriented people." He shrugs, and that singular action makes him seem more French than the pretentious explanations, the accent, or the cigarettes. It's distinctly European, in the same way as his shaggy haircut and patterned scarf. "It also helps that we're not as uptight as you Americans," he adds.

"I don't think there's anything uptight about Americans not wanting their lungs to turn to tar." I cross my arms. "And I certainly don't think there's anything sexy about smoking."

"Well," Théo says as we pull into my driveway. "That's why I make a point of not fucking guys who already have sticks up their asses." He throws the car into park and tosses the keys at me over the hood. "It was a pleasure, really," he says as he lights another cigarette. "Let's do it again some time."

I don't give him the satisfaction of an answer.

* * *

Work, if at all possible, gets even worse. Nearly half the class fails the midterm – a fact that does not go unnoticed by the dean. He invites several other members of the faculty to our private meeting, and they provide condescending options for how I can "liven up the classroom" while feeling superior and vindicated by the fact that I'm failing so miserably. They also introduce me to a website – Rate My Prof – that's filled with alternating accounts of the hamster cage incident, a healthy dose of vitriol, and a smattering of comments about how nice my ass looks when I bend over my desk. I have a quality rating of 0.6/5 and that tells me everything I need to know, really. I leave the meeting with my ears burning and with an overwhelming urge to call my sister. We haven't spoken since the night I found out about Alec and Magnus, and I haven't bothered to send her my new cell number yet, but I think it's time to give in.

The time that I don't spend engulfed in paperwork, I whittle away scouring through social media sites, torturing myself with images of Alec and Magnus. I don't even bother to delete the Internet history anymore, knowing that it's pointless to lie to myself. I follow my ex-boyfriend's movements like some kind of psychopathic stalker, and it's only after I almost slip to my mother that Alec and Magnus spent the weekend at Cape Cod that I realize the extent of my creepiness. I do the only thing I can think of and download a program on all of my devices that blocks me from the Internet. Then, with nothing else to distract me, I escape to the beach.

* * *

"You're looking particularly gorgeous today, Princess," Thomas purrs, as I make my way down to the ocean on a particularly warm afternoon. His wetsuit is half unzipped and hanging below his waist, and he leers at anyone who gives him more than a three second glance.

I ignore him, as usual, as that's the quickest way to get him to shut up. Unfortunately, while surfing has helped take my mind off the big fat gay adventures of Alec and Magnus, it's also given Thomas the impression that I'm about to give in to his advances. He's completely shameless – going so far as to flirt even when he's there with some other guy, dropping lewd comments about threesomes – but even his lechery is preferable to Theo's unwarranted churlishness and mightier-than-thou attitude. He spends most of his time on the beach rather than in the water, smoking his cigarettes, reading obscure French novels, and undoubtedly thinking he's better than everyone. He refuses to wear sunglasses, instead sprawling out under the cover of his striped umbrella, sipping on glass bottles of coke and chatting away to his dog like he's the star of some kind of avant-garde fifties-era film.

I make the mistake of calling him out one afternoon when he criticizes my form, only to find out that he doesn't stay on the beach because he doesn't know _how _to surf, but because he surfs _so well_ that he doesn't want to make everyone else uncomfortable. Thomas makes the mistake of asking him to give me some pointers when we're out on a particularly rough day, but he just blows smoke in my direction and mutters that _there are some things that can't be taught. _I contemplate burying him alive, but decide that it's not worth the trouble.

Still, despite his insufferable attitude and Thomas's relentless philandering, they're the closest things I have to friends in this city. If nothing else they help break up the monotony and give me something other than Magnus Bane to obsess about. Plus, sometimes, when he's cresting a wave and his hair is slicked back and his face is made hazy by the spray, I glance over at Thomas and find Alec staring back at me. For those brief seconds, before I notice that the jaw is a little too wide and the lips are a shade too red, I can imagine my life as it should have been, rather than how it's turned out to be.

* * *

Another few weeks pass and I've started cooking again. Thomas is useless in the kitchen so I'm about to head over to Theo's – Thomas is house sitting for the weekend, while Monsieur Sophisticated is gone to a private cinema screening, which I am absolutely, one hundred percent _not _jealous about – to give a cooking lesson when the phone rings.

Emma's gone to a medical conference in Luxembourg and my mother hasn't called me since our fight about Alec, so I eye the caller-id warily for a moment before picking up.

"Hello?" The connection is tinny and no one answers, so I assume it's some kind of telemarketer. Not particularly interested in improving my credit score, I get ready to end the call when I'm stopped by a small, familiar voice.

"Jay?"

That one word sends a frisson of dread straight through my spine. I grope for a chair and fall into it heavily. The wood strains with the effort of supporting my entire body weight, but I make no move to change position.

"Alec?" He sounds exactly like he did that last night – unsure and immeasurably sad. My heart pounds a staccato beat against my chest, and I dampen the burgeoning hope that threatens to spill outward. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, and I can picture him perfectly in my mind: his lower lip caught between his teeth; his hand tiptoeing nervously across his leg; and his body curled up as small as he can make it, as if he's expecting a blow. He has never been one for confrontation; it was part of what I thought made us so compatible.

"You told your mother about Magnus," he says, his voice a little stronger now. "What he used to do for a living." I notice the past tense and wonder what Magnus is doing now. What's he even qualified to do? I think fleetingly about my mother's gold-digging accusation and decide that maybe she wasn't so far off. The thought makes me irrationally upset, as if Alec is still mine to protect.

"Maybe I did," I lash out, falling quickly into old habits. The drive to argue is a difficult one to repress, and I've never been good at taking criticism. "Trying to erase that chapter of his life, is he? Becoming your kept boy?"

"Don't," Alec says, and his voice is low and dangerous in a way I've never heard before. "Whatever this is, whatever you're trying to do, don't you dare insult Magnus. You have no idea what his life has been like – what he's been through."

"Frankly, I think you should be a little more worried about what he's been through," I sneer.

"Since when are you this person?" Alec asks. He sounds genuinely hurt and shame blossoms in my chest, punctuating my anger. "I understand that I hurt you and I really am sorry, but I never thought it would come down to this."

Completely confused and thrown a little off-guard by Alec's intensity, I fail to answer in time. "Magnus isn't ashamed of what he's done," Alec continues. "But that doesn't give your mother the right to humiliate him in front of people he barely knows."

"Alec, what are you talking about?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Jay. She _told_ me at the party that you're the one who told her to ask Magnus about being a stripper. In front of all my mother's work associates. How could you do something like that?"

"I'm in _California,_ Alec. Don't put whatever class issues you have about your relationship over on me. Just because your little boy-toy doesn't fit in – "

"Is that what you think of me?" Alec's voices wavers, but he continues. "You think that I would throw away everything we had together for some kind of fling?" His voice picks up again and I move the phone a little further away from my ear. "You know what, even if I had, then you should still be pissed at _me. I'm _the one who broke your heart and _I'm_ the one who left. Magnus didn't grow up in the same world we did, Jay, and the last thing he needs is someone reminding him of that when he's most vulnerable." The phone rattles a little as Alec switches ears. "I mean, I know lawyers are conniving, but I expected better from you. I expected better from both of you."

I feel like all of the air has been sucked from my lungs. I can't believe that my mother did this. I knew I shouldn't have told her anything – she can't just leave well enough alone. The small bubbles of hope fizzle like acid in my throat. "Well, sorry to disappoint," I manage to squeeze out.

"I get that you feel like someone needs to be punished for what happened," Alec says, his voice quiet again. "But this isn't Magnus's fault. If you want to hurt someone, then hurt me, not the person I love."

_The person I love. _He says it so simply, so naturally, that I know it's not an underhanded way of making me pay for what's happened. I'm not even sure Alec is capable of being underhanded. Unlike my damn mother.

How the tables have turned. I used to be the person Alec looked to when he needed something. When he was upset or overwhelmed. Now it looks like I'm public enemy number one. "I'll talk to my mother," I say, and then I promptly hang up. I power down the phone before Alec has a chance to redial, and set it on the table in front of me.

_The person I love. _

The first time Alec told me he loved me we were driving to some kind of Charity function that his mother was hosting, and we were listening to my iPod. A song came on that I hated, but Alec loved – I had downloaded the night before when he complained that I had the musical inclinations of a seventy-year-old man – and he just looked over and said it like it was the most natural thing. It was like breathing, his declaration of love, and I had pulled over and dragged him into the back seat and kissed him until we were late for the party. I had whispered the words into his mouth, his neck, his hair, reveling in the way he whispered them back with a small, shy grin.

Drunk with happiness, I was sure that that feeling would last forever. That his simple declaration of love was a sign of our assured future together. The thought of anything coming between us was so absurd that I never even bothered to think it.

I wonder if that's how Magnus Bane feels now.

* * *

I ring the doorbell five times in quick succession before Thomas appears. He's topless – as usual – and brandishing a salad fork.

He winks, poking me in the chest with the prongs of the fork. "About time you showed up."

I grab him by the hips and pull him forward, forcing our lips together. Though I can tell he's surprised, he melts instantly into the kiss and wastes no time wrapping his arms around my neck and pressing into me. He definitely hasn't been exaggerating about his expertise. He pushes me into the wall in a flurry of teeth, tongue, and small, short pants against my neck, and while objectively the kiss _feels _good, I can't erase the accompanying sense of _wrongness_. His lips are just a touch too thin and his hands are not quite wide enough. The rough way he presses my against the wall is nothing like the sweet, soft touches I'm used to, and I feel stupid that I thought that's why this would be better.

Still, there's no point to turn back now. "Still want to fuck?" I pant as he lifts my shirt over my head and starts to kiss across my chest.

"Vigorously and repeatedly," he replies, nipping at my skin.

I press him down to the floor, shivering as he pulls my pants along with him. "Just – no talking," I say, letting my head fall back into the wall. I run my hands through his black hair, watching as it slips like silk through my fingers. "Please, just stay quiet."

* * *

**So ends Part I/III. Stayed tuned! And in the meantime, you can always check out my new story! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay guys, I lied. I am a lying liar who lies. I meant for this to be three parts - nice and NEAT - I really did. But I got excited after I wrote this part, and I wanted to share it with everyone. I'm sorry for messing up the format and giving you the MOST random chapters, but it's better than not reading, right? I'm really really busy for the next three weeks, so I thought it was better to post in less-than-cohesive blurbs than wait for ages. Am I right?**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

In his haste to undo my jeans, Thomas drops the salad fork right on my toes.

"Jesus, Thomas," I hiss. "Watch what you're doing. "

"Sorry, sorry." Thomas picks up the toe in question and brings it toward his lips.

"What I you doing?" I jump backward with a yelp, hitting my head on a low-hanging coat rack. "Shit!"

He looks up and his blue eyes momentarily distract me; they're almost the exact same shade as Alec's. "Kissing it better," he says, grinning. "What does it look like?"

I wriggle my foot out of his grasp. "You do not kiss feet."

He laughs, low and sultry, and despite myself I shiver in anticipation. Thomas is a man who's used to getting what he wants through whatever means necessary, and that has me conjuring up a whole host of depraved scenarios that would require copious amount of alcohol to even acknowledge aloud.

"Oh, Princess," he purrs, running his hand up the inside of my thigh, slipping it beneath my shorts. "There is no part of this gorgeous body that isn't for kissing."

I tentatively put my leg back on the floor. I don't bother to show my displeasure at the nickname, as I'm sure it would only delight him. "Well, just keep it above the ankle."

Not feeling the need to answer verbally, Thomas just leans in and licks a thin stripe behind my knee. It's all I can do to keep it from buckling. His nose pushes against the sensitive skin and nips teasingly, moving slowly upward. At the same time, he trails the hand that's inside my shorts slowly downward, tickling the skin of my inner thigh, and I clamp down on the urge to giggle. I take deep breaths in through the nose and out the mouth, focusing on the tiny, sucking kisses instead of the sensory overload from his fingertips. My legs shake with the effort of holding back laughter, and confused, Thomas draws back and looking up at me once again.

"You having some sort of fit up there?"

"It tickles," I admit. "Your fingers. Maybe we shouldn't stand. We could move to…" I trail off, looking around the house. I'm certain that Théo would hate the thought of us fucking on the sofa, and I'm not really sure if that's a deterrent or an incentive.

"The bed?" Thomas's eyes are hooded with lust. "Yes, excellent plan. To the bed!" He herds me up the stairs, swatting my ass when I don't move quickly enough. I turn around to glare at him, which just makes the silly pervert even more determined. He practically throws me into the bed, pinning my wrists above my head. Though we're the same height, his slender body fits on top of mine without causing any major discomfort.

"Now," he says, grinding his hips down and enjoying the way my breath catches at the sudden spark of sensation, "let's get down to business." He kisses his way into my mouth, slick and dirty and almost unnaturally hot, but all I can picture is Alec. With every roll of Thomas's hips I feel a little hornier, but also a little dirtier. Though everything I know of Thomas ensures me that he wouldn't be hurt by this admission, it still feels wrong. I think that maybe the kissing, though it has none of the soft, sweet quality of what I used to share with Alec, is a little too intimate; for the first time with someone new I may need a little more distance. I push back on his shoulders, shuddering a little as he nips on my lip in protest.

When he raises his head his pupils are blown, his red lips are puffy, and there's a distinct flush across his cheekbones. He looks like a debauched angel and for the first time I fully believe that a married man would follow him home like a lovesick puppy with very little coercion. Still, as beautiful as he is, I can't shake the queasiness in the pit of my stomach. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks a little like a deer caught in headlights, and I can't help but laugh. "If sex makes you this stupid, maybe you should think about cutting back a little."

He smiles, slow and lazy, and thrusts his hips slowly. "I would rather wander the earth as an uneducated ruffian," he says proudly. He peels my t-shirt up over my head and descends to kiss along my chest. "Intelligence is overrated."

"Huh," I answer, a little high-pitched. "That's just so," – I wriggle as he runs his tongue around the edge of my nipple, and any hint of rebuke vanishes as my thoughts fizzle into pleasure. He nips again, sharply this time, and with the unexpected jolt of pleasure-pain I kick out by accident, getting him right in the kneecap.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" I roll out from beneath him and bend down to inspect the damage. "I'm so sorry."

"No harm done," he pants. "Let's just be thankful it wasn't a little higher." He flops back on the pillow, folding his arms behind his head. "You can always nurse me back to health."

"All right. Okay." I flush a little, wishing I had something sexier to say, and run my fingers lightly up his sides. He shivers, which I take as a good sign, but I'm not really sure where to go from there. "Is it all right, if I?" I tug at his shorts tentatively.

He lifts his hips with another grin. "If I ever tell a gorgeous man that it is not okay to take down my shorts, then please, put me out of my misery."

Rolling my eyes I start to tug them down and then realize that I haven't done this with someone who wasn't Alec in _years. _I'm not sure how other people even _like _it. I mean, it's pretty simple: you put someone's dick in your mouth and bob your head around. Except suppressing my gag reflex has always been a little hard and I have to work my way up and I'm not even sure if guys who have regular, casual sex use condoms for blowjobs and this is all becoming much more complicated than I anticipated. I freeze, with my hand half on Thomas's dick, and feeling a little dizzy.

"Jay?" Thomas pushes me off his lap and sits up. "What's wrong?"

"I don't –" I take a deep, fortifying breath, and admit what I've known all along. "I don't think I can do this."

Thomas's face softens and I feel a rush of genuine affection for him. For all his preening and promiscuity, he's never been anything but a good friend. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to." He places his hand over mine. "I'll take care of you, if that's what you need?"

"No, I don't think. I don't know –" I duck my head and trace the pattern that runs along his comforter. "I don't think I can do any of this. I mean…casually."

"Oh no." I look up just in time to watch Thomas flop back onto the bed, his face even paler than usual. He grimaces and then slaps his hand over his forehead. "I can't believe it. I knew this would happen. My mum always told me this cherub face would be my damnation."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, it's bloody obvious, right?" He sighs and sits back up, taking both my hands in his this time. "You've gone and fallen in love with me."

He must take my open-mouthed surprise for confirmation, because he groans again. "It's the hair, right? Bollocks, it's the lips! Blokes are always going on about the lips. There's nothing I can do about those. Let them get all cracked and chapped, I suppose." He looks horrified at the very thought. He springs up from the bed and peers at himself in the full-length mirror standing opposite. "I could get a haircut – but I love my hair. I've had a real craving for chilli-cheese fries lately – I suppose I could put on a few pounds, see if that worked."

"You think people would fall out of love with you for being _fat_?"

"Oh Princess, that is so sweet. You'd love me even if I was pudgy." He sits back on the bed and lifts up my hand to kiss it.

I yank my hand away from his mouth, and he nearly falls right into my lap.

"Oh, don't be like that, please. We're neighbors! And best mates! I won't forgive myself if I've gone and bollocksed it all up."

"Then please," I beg. "Stop talking this instant." I clamp my hand over his mouth, not moving it until I'm sure he's finished with the hysterics. "Number one: I am not in love with you." His shoulders sag in relief and I resist the urge to push him off the bed. "Number two: this ISN'T EVEN YOUR HOUSE! It's Théo's, so we're not technically neighbors."

Thomas mock raises his hand, delighting when I glare at him. "But we are mates?" he clarifies.

"Yes, Thomas, we're mates."

"Good, then as a mate, I would just like to ask: what the hell got into you before you came over? I mean, if I had to _vote_ I would just like to say that I am one hundred percent behind every greeting you ever give me starting with a lovely bit of tongue, but –"

"Aurgh, stop babbling!" I pick up a pillow and press it into his face. "I just – Jesus this is embarrassing. I got a call from Alec –"

"Alec being the boyfriend who's got you all twisted about cheating?"

"Yeah, that's him. Except he wasn't my boyfriend, he was my fiancé. We were engaged, for a couple of weeks actually, before he up and dumped me for a stripper. He was supposed to move in with me."

"Jesus, Jay." Thomas leans in and puts his head on my shoulder, but I find that I don't really mind. He turns and kisses my neck softly, and there's nothing sexual about it. It's just sweet. "I'm really sorry."

"Me too. Anyway, tonight he called and I thought – only for like _three seconds_, but apparently that was enough – that he was going to tell me he made a mistake. But instead it was to tell me off for something my pathologically interfering mother pulled in New York."

"Fuck." Thomas nuzzles a little closer, but then pulls away, energized by a sudden revelation. "So what you're saying," he says, his eyes brightening. "Is that you were here to use me for revenge sex?"

I stammer out a response, but Thomas just _beams_ and I hide my face in the pillow in shame. "It's true! This is surprisingly hot."

"It is not hot, it's horrible! Honestly, there is something wrong with you!" I kick my leg out, catching him in the ribs. "My sister is a shrink, maybe I should get her to come have a chat with you."

"Hey, don't put your sex issues on me, Princess. It's not my fault that you're so innocent.

"I'm a lawyer, I am _not _innocent."

"Oh, but you are." He runs his fingers along my waistline, raising his eyebrows when I splutter in indignation. "You've probably never ever had a one-night stand, have you?"

I haven't, but I'm not about to tell him that. "I did a lot of clubbing before I met Alec." Clubbing that ended with me going home alone at the end of the night, terrified of STI's and getting mugged in a dirty bathroom.

"Of course you did, Princess."

Thomas looks at me like I'm some sort of adorable puppy, so I kick him again for good measure. "I'm not going to stay here just for you to be a dick. If I wanted to be condescended to, I would wait until Théo came home to come over."

"All right, I apologize. May I ask another personal question?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Excellent! When was the last time you wanked?"

"Wanked?"

"Yeah, you know," – he makes a crude hand gesture – "flogged the hog, choked the chicken?" He takes in my horrified expression and says, in a lofty accent, "Masturbated?"

"That is none of your business."

"Jay, as a friend, I'm concerned about your well-being. You spend all your days with those little baby lawyer hellions or grading bullshit papers, and if you keep all that cum locked up, then soon you're going to explode. Your dick is just going to spontaneously combust, and that's really a shame, because I'm one hundred percent sure that it's a lovely dick."

"What college did you go to?" I ask, wishing I could burn my eardrums. "Where did you learn science? What college would take you?"

"Well," he says, pressing his hands together. "Saying Théo and I were college roommates might have been a bit generous on my part. I mean, _he _was in college, and we were_ technically _roommates. It's not my fault he didn't charge –"

"Okay, so you're a long-time mooch, I get it. Continue with your wildly inappropriate questions."

"Cheers," he answers. "To hell with medicine or any of that trash. If there's one thing I know, it's sex. And I am absolutely certain that you need to get off, somehow. Now, if you want to go home and have some privacy, then by all means." He gestures toward the door. "But if you wanted a little friendly help, then I'm not at all opposed."

"What kind of friends do you have? Is that what you and Théo do here all day – jerk each other off?"

Thomas visibly blanches. "Please, that's a line even I won't cross. He's like my brother. Thinking of his bits just – " He shudders again, then moves a little closer. "I don't want to pressure you into doing something you don't want to do, Princess. But when I say that I would be happy to help you along, then you must know I mean it with the utmost sincerity."

I hesitate. I mean, what Thomas is offering seems ideal, but there's a small part of me that believes that it's too good to be true. That there are no _true_ friends with benefits and that one of us is going to get hurt. Still, he's right – I can't even remember the last time I could touch myself without thoughts of Magnus fucking Bane flickering in my head. "Okay." I pull him down so that we're lying side-by-side this time.

"Thank God," Thomas buries his face in my neck and _groans_, the sound shooting straight to my cock. "Seriously, if you had left without me at least getting to see that gorgeous arse of yours, I would have wept."

"You're such a pervert," I laugh as he kisses his way back down my chest, palming my cock as he moves. He slides my shorts down and moans again. "I'm serious. I would bury my head right in there if you'd let me."

My legs twitch involuntarily closer together and Thomas looks up, disappointed. "Is that a no?"

"It's my ass," I stage whisper. "I mean, there are some places a tongue just shouldn't go."

Thomas gapes at me. "You mean you were about to marry a man who'd never even had his tongue in your arse?"

"Yes, I mean, well, he _offered. _I just, didn't. Like it. Want it. Whatever. Can we just get on with it?"

"Oh Princess, you do not know what you are missing out on." He shrugs and then sidles back up to kiss me, slow and wet. "No worries, I have a feeling that right now you're not up for anything too complicated."

Now that I'm thinking about it, the need to come is almost overwhelming. Just the light pressure of Thomas's shorts against my cock is enough to almost send me over the edge. "Just haul your pants down," I say. "I don't think it's going to last long."

He pulls them down with one hand, shimmying his hips a little, and then lines up so that he can bring us off at the same time.

At the first press of hot skin, I think I might lose it. I manage to hold my orgasm back, and just gulp in a half-strangled breath of air. Thomas makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, and comes back up to kiss me. Now that there's no pressure, everything feels amazing. The skin-against-skin, the way that Thomas can find a way to jerk us both off while still running his fingers over the head of my cock, the smooth, slick feeling of his tongue against mine. The pressure builds, and it's all of three minutes before I'm whimpering and coming all over his hand like a teenager. I don't have much room for embarrassment though, because Thomas, as oversexed as he is, finishes immediately after.

"That's the way," he mumbles, kissing sloppily at my jaw. "Isn't that better?"

"Yeah," I say, still a little dazed that I've done something like this. "It is, actually."

Thomas rolls to the side, caring very little about the mess that he's smearing over his bedclothes. I reach behind me, trying to find something I can use to clean off. "God, you're hot," he says, running his arm along my bicep. "Want to go again?"

My stomach picks that time to grumble loudly. "Right," he says, getting up and grabbing a couple of facecloths from his ensuite bathroom. "Food first, fuck later?"

* * *

Before we can even set the table to eat our salmon kabobs and salad, the door bursts open and Théo comes storming in, his scarf flying behind him and his glasses falling halfway down his face.

I don't even realize, until he stops and stares, openmouthed, that Thomas and I are in nothing but our boxers. Théo turns his head quickly, but not before I see the hint of a blush spreading along his pale cheeks. I would think that having spent so much time around Thomas, he'd be used to this type of behavior. I wonder if maybe the real reason they don't sleep together has far less to do with the fact that Thomas sees him as a brother, and far more to do with the fact that Théo doesn't want to have to share. I've seen the way he covets a bottle of coke; I can't imagine what he'd be like with a person.

Thomas just picks up a skewer and pushes it toward his face, obviously unashamed by his attire. "Salmon-kebab?"

"As if I want to die of food poisoning," he spits, decidedly avoiding staring in my direction.

"For your information, Mon-sieur Doom and Gloom, Jay helped me make these." He takes a bite, and gives an exaggerated moan.

Feeling extremely awkward and with no polite way to run upstairs and put some clothes on, I decide to just jump in on the conversation. "What happened to your film festival?"

Théo looks at me like I'm speaking Russian.

"Right," Thomas says through a mouthful of salmon. "Film festival weekend. Why are you back?"

"Riley showed up," Théo spits, looking murderous.

Thomas nearly gags on his next piece of fish. "Oh fuck," he says, "Double fuck."

Before I can ask who Riley is, Théo storms up the stairs, flinging random pieces of outerwear behind him.

"Jay, I'm so sorry," he says, putting his salmon back in the dish and taking my hands in his. "I don't mean to treat you like last week's slag, but I really need to go take care of this." There's a crash and a stream of French cursing above our heads. "I'll run up and get your clothes, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure." If whatever is happening means more to Thomas than getting laid, then it must be important. Plus, the quicker I can get out of the house before Théo decides he needs someone to strangle, the better.

Thomas is back in a matter of seconds, and the only delay in my departure comes from his finding every opportunity he can to grab my ass. "It's a fucking work of art," he insists as I finally manage to pull up my pants. He leans in and kisses me softly on the mouth. "I'll drop round tomorrow, yeah?"

"Sure." Another muffled yell echoes down the stairs. "See you then."

Thomas is running up to Théo's bedroom as I'm walking out the door, and I itch to creep back inside. Théo is a pretentious asshole, but I've never really stopped to wonder why. Maybe this Riley dude is the reason. If so, then I can definitely empathize. Maybe Thomas will tell me when things have cooled down a little. I think about the way he'd sprawled over the bed, blissed out and incoherent after his orgasm, and I smile. It'll be almost too easy to get him to spill.

My curiosity burns as I head down to the beach to take the long way home. Suddenly, I can't wait until tomorrow. I really hate secrets.

* * *

**So, many new things happening! I really didn't mean to start posting this as a chapter-by-chapter fic, because A) I didn't plan it like that, and (much like Jay!) not having plans makes me nervous & B) the timeline skips around a bit in this fic, so it makes things a little disorienting. STILL, I think we'd rather have some Jay and shake our heads mockingly at the silly author than delay Jay just for the sake of formatting. right? RIGHT, GUYS? right. *smiles sweetly* love you. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Honestly, I'm not even promising a length for this. It's gained a mind of its own, and I don't want to rush things. You'll still get snippets from the other characters, but I'll probably finish this first. Sorry for subjecting you to my fanfiction-which-isn't-really-a-fanfiction-because -everyone-is-an-OC. I hope you all enjoy :)**

* * *

Thomas, as it turns out, has better resolve than I gave him credit for. He refuses to tell me anything about the elusive Riley, even when, blissed out and post-coital, I let him cuddle into my chest while I play with his hair. While I thought that the frivolity of our relationship would preclude such intimate scenarios, Thomas has once again surprised me. He loves to cuddle, and practically wraps himself around me like a kraken, trapping me to his bed, the sofa, or the beach until he's had his fill. I'm also surprised to find that I don't mind – cuddling with Thomas is almost like cuddling a puppy, and it provides me with the opportunity to try to pry information from him. I try underhanded comments, reverse psychology, genuine empathy, and outright bribery, but he just will not budge.

"Just ask him yourself," he says one day as we're lying on the beach, watching other surfers brave the cool November waves and trying to work up the courage to go out ourselves.

I pout and pull away from him, burying my arms in the soft sand. "You know he hates me." I'm not really sure why, but all evidence points to the fact. He's polite enough and has never asked me to leave or excluded me from his plans, but he never goes out of his way to be nice, either. Sometimes, when Thomas gets a little handsy and I'm too tired or horny to tell him to back off, Théo will make an excuse to leave the room. I've also questioned Thomas about his history with his roommate, but for someone so open he can be irritatingly closed-lipped when he wants.

He leans over and rubs his nose against my neck, sending a wave of heat straight to my gut. "For the hundredth time, Princess, he does not hate you." He pauses for a second, and then continues. "He just…doesn't like lawyers."

"I am a lawyer!"

"A fact that I am quite willing to forgive," Thomas says, reapplying his sunscreen. His skin is so pale that if he doesn't do it every thirty minutes he burns as bright as a lobster. "Just give him some time to warm up."

"He's not a fucking icicle," I grouse. "He shouldn't need time to thaw. Plus, it's been months. I don't know why he has to be so damn uptight all the time."

In his surprise, Thomas squirts a stripe of sunblock right across his body onto my arm. "Could we rewind just for a moment, love. Did I just hear you call someone else uptight?"

I turn to glare at Thomas, and he retaliates by smearing a glob of his SPF nine thousand into my face. "If I get a tan in the shape of your finger, I will kill you," I warn. "And also, not allowing tongues in your ass does not make you uptight. It makes you sensible."

"Because that's what makes life fun," Thomas pouts. "Being sensible." He lifts up the back of my shorts and peers down, letting his hand run down the smooth skin. "It's just not fair," he moans. "The world's most perfect arse, and the most you'll let me do is grab it a bit."

"Yes, you live a life of true hardship."

Thomas adjusts his sunglasses and settles back down on his towel, draping his foot over mine. "Some days," he says, scooting just close enough that our skin is almost touching, but far enough away that he knows I won't complain about being in public, "I just don't know if I'll make it through."

* * *

November slips away slowly, and by the time exam week is poised to begin, I find myself once again in the Dean of Law's office, attempting to appear contrite when all I really want to do is rage at the fact that I'm being punished for not coddling my lecture hall full of ungrateful, unmotivated shits. My final exam is on the desk, being inspected by the other members of the faculty to make sure that it's "appropriate". Like the students, I feel exhausted and drained. I just want to get this term under my belt so I can start anew. I already have a folder full of lecture plans for January, and I plan to spend most of my Christmas vacation perfecting them.

"James?" The Dean is looking at me like I've just stated my intent to transfer to the mathematics faculty and Professor Wozney sighs heavily from her place in the corner.

"So it's acceptable then?" I ask levelly, straightening up and staring around the room to prove to these vultures how little their opinion means to me.

"It's…adequate," Wozney says, her nose turning up as she walks through the door.

"Happy Holiday, James," the Dean says as I'm on my way out.

_Eat a dick, you evil bastard_, I think as I make my final trek of the semester toward the Lecture Hall D.

* * *

The night before I'm set to leave for Las Vegas to spend Christmas with Emma and Lucas, Thomas decides to throw me a going-away party. Though he says that Théo is fine with it, I think he's going to have an aneurysm when I walk in the front door, my arms laden with food.

He peers down at the dishes before plucking a cigarette out of his packet. I swear he lights up whenever I walk in the house, just because he knows I hate it. "You know that drunk people don't care about plate presentation, right?"

"I like things to be done properly," I say, not bothering to ask him for a hand. I settle the plates down on the counter next to the beer and mix, and wander upstairs to find Thomas. I can hear Théo rearranging the dishes, but I'm as likely to punch him as help him, so I continue along my way.

"My, you are stunning." Thomas walks over and kisses me slowly, his tongue sliding against mine, and his hands creeping downward to cup his favorite body part. "Delicious, in fact." He reaches up and brushes a hand through my hair. "Forgoing the military look?"

"Thought I might let it grow out again," I admit. It's been buzzed close to my head since Alec left, but I'm starting to miss it. "It gets really curly."

"Lord help me," Thomas groans, resting his forehead against mine for a second before he moves back to the mirror to tug the last pieces of his choppy bang into place. "Perfect," he says, winking at his own reflection. "Now Princess, let's go set up for the festivities."

Since Théo is under the impression that "garden parties" are something that are put off by middle-aged WASPS who have nothing better to do than dress up and complain about the state of their own lives, we end up setting up down on the beach. Thomas has gathered up enough driftwood to keep a fire going for most of the night, and though it all feels a little bit frat-boy to me, I try to be grateful. I haul down my own lawn chairs, while Théo and Thomas carry out the mammoth cooler they keep in their basement. It's fully stocked with beer, liquor, and mix, and I wonder, not for the first time, what exactly Thomas meant when he invited me to an "intimate gathering".

It means, I find out about an hour or so later, about a hundred and fifty of his closest friends. The crowd is a strange mix of beach bums, rich friends, and stuffy intellectuals who have obviously been invited by Théo. Thomas, being his effervescent self, does an excellent job of introducing me to people my own age, even going to far as to prod me in the direction one Gareth Hardy – a linguistics major who works in the writing center at UCLA with Théo. Gareth is short and sweet, with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose and pretty green eyes, and I while I'm pretty sure I'm still not ready to get intimate with anyone who isn't Thomas, there's no harm in getting him a beer.

"So, you work with Théo?" I ask, glancing across the crowd to search out his shaggy head. Unsurprisingly, he's lurking on the outskirts of the party with a group of people also clad in skinny jeans and scarves, probably talking about how much they hate the party that's carrying on behind them.

"Yeah," Gareth beams, and his smile is so adorable that I have no choice but to smile back.

"That must be a riot."

"Oh, it is," he says earnestly. "Théo's brilliant. He speaks five languages, you know?" I didn't, and I say so.

"Yeah. French, English, German, Italian, and Spanish." He ticks off each one with a different finger. He flushes a little at his enthusiasm and makes a visible effort to calm down. "I mean, I'm a linguistics major and I'm struggling with two." He sighs and then flushes again, looking chagrined at his melodramatic antics.

"Still doing better than me," I say, grinning at the pleased look on his face. Though I may not want anything to come of this conversation, it's pretty validating to find that you can still make a cute guy fumble over his words. Getting dumped takes a number on your self-esteem, no matter who you are, and the warmth of the fire combined with the buzz of alcohol is making it easy to get lost in a little flirtatious banter. Gareth goes off to find another drink, and while he's gone I feel a prickling on the back of my neck. I look around only to find Théo glaring daggers at me across the fire. He looks away as soon as I meet his gaze, but I know that I'm not imagining things. I get up – emboldened by the alcohol – to ask him what his damn problem is, but a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye distracts me before I can fight my way out of the crowd.

Thomas is leaning against an old, broken down fence, just below the beaten up old wharf that separates my house from Théo's, and there's a guy dressed in horribly fitting pants and an atrocious Billabong sweater standing just ahead of him. They're tucked away out of sight, and at first I just roll my eyes; Thomas has already been through at least three guys tonight, and though this one is definitely not the most attractive of the batch, I'm not the one who has to sleep with him. I'm about to move on to ask Théo what the hell his problem is when Billabong reaches out and pins Thomas to the fence with his hand. Thomas tries to flick him away, but he's much too scrawny and much too drunk to put forth a good effort. The guy's hand migrates upward, fastening tightly around Thomas's neck, and I sprint toward them, enraged.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Jay." Thomas's voice is high and panicked and my hands tighten in rage. I never thought it would make me upset to not hear his stupid nickname. "What's going on here?" I ask, pushing myself between Thomas and Billabong.

"None of your fucking business, bro." As if my urge to punch this dick wasn't strong enough.

"I think maybe you should leave," I say. "Party's over."

"The party hasn't even started," he says, shoving me out of the way. "And I'm not leaving until your slutty little boyfriend here tells me what I want to know."

Billabong is staggering back before I even realize I've thrown a punch. My hand throbs painfully, but the rush of having _punched someone in the face_ far outweighs the sting. An enraged yell yanks me out of my testosterone-fueled awe, and I just have time to push Thomas toward Théo, who's materialized seemingly out of nowhere, before Billabong tackles me like a stampeding bull. Thankfully, all the hours with nothing to do but feel sorry for myself and use my new exercise equipment has helped substantiate my naturally broad frame, and it doesn't take much effort for me to use his momentum against him and pin him up against the fence.

He squirms ineffectually, and I pull out my best lawyer-face and lean in close. "You listen here you putrid little worm," I hiss. "You are going to leave this party and never fucking bother Thomas again, understand?"

He mumbles something under his breath and I slam him back into the old, rotting wood. "If you so much as walk down this beach I will have you brought up on charges you've never even heard of so fast that empty fucking head will spin. Understand?"

He scowls, but nods, and slinks away without a backward glance.

When I turn around Thomas and Théo are conversing in rapid-fire French, and Gareth is standing behind me, looking partially awed and partially horrified, holding out a facecloth filled with ice. "For your knuckles," he says, when he notices my confused expression. I hadn't even realized they were bleeding.

"My hero!" Thomas shouts when I've finished wrapping the makeshift icepack around my hand. He launches himself into me and pulls my head down for a long, deep kiss. A couple of people who are just wandering over catcall, but I understand the kiss for what it really is: reassurance. Thomas has none of his usual finesse; he presses into me with a feverish desperation, and I allow him to take control. His body trembles a little against mine, and I wrap my arms around him as tightly as I can.

"It's okay," I whisper when we break apart and he buries his face in my neck. "You're all right."

Théo pulls Gareth away and stalks back up the beach, yelling that it's time for people to go home. I take Thomas's hand and lead him back to the house, grabbing a bottle of water as he walks up the stairs to his room.

"What did that guy want?" I ask quietly as Thomas strips off his clothes and climbs into bed, shivering. I climb in behind him, still fully clothed, and he settles into my arms with a soft sigh.

"He used to date my friend Ally," Thomas says, shivering a little again. "They broke up a couple of months ago and now he wants to know where she is. Fucking asshole."

"If he comes near you again, you have to tell me. I wasn't lying about getting his ass thrown in jail, you know."

"I know," Thomas says with a yawn. His shivering has settled now and his exhaustion is swiftly catching up to him. "Thanks, Jay."

I lean down and kiss his cheek softly. "Anytime," I promise.

It takes less than a minute for him to fall completely asleep. I leave the bottle of water on his dresser for the morning, and quietly slip out the door.

When I get to the kitchen, I'm surprised to find Théo at the table, opening a bottle of wine. What's even more surprising is that there are two glasses, and he raises his eyebrows at me before he tips some into the second glass. "Please, sit," he says as I approach him slowly. I'm not sure if he's just drunk or planning to poison me. I wait for him to take a sip first, just to be safe.

"I don't think I've ever seen a fistfight before," he says. The alcohol amplifies his accent and makes his voice rich and throaty.

"Let's hope you don't have to see one again." I pause and take the seat across from him and pick up the glass of wine, twirling it slowly. "At least not from me."

"You were very gallant." Théo takes a sip of the wine and I watch the smooth column of his throat rise and fall as he swallows. When I realize that I'm staring I take a hasty sip from my own glass, and find myself overwhelmed by the flavor. It's cool, crisp, and just sweet enough to burst on the tongue without cloying the senses.

I look up to find Théo looking at me, a small, pleased smile playing at the corners of his lips. "C'est bon?"

"It's delicious," I answer truthfully. "It's probably the best wine I've ever had. What is it?" Théo turns the bottle toward me, displaying the label. "Château d'Yquem."

Théo laughs – probably at my pronunciation – but it has none of its usual bite, so I let it slide. "My Grandmother's vineyard, in Bordeaux."

"Your Grandmother owns a vineyard? That's where you grew up?"

Théo laughs again, taking another sip of wine, and part of me feels like this is some kind of drunken hallucination. I must have fallen asleep upstairs because we are having an actual civil conversation, and Théo is laughing, and I'm actually getting a little scared. "Non," he says, subconsciously slipping back into French. "My parents are farmers. I grew up in a very small town in Northern France, near a Canadian War Memorial Site."

I can't imagine Théo on a farm, milking cows or cutting wheat. A fancy vineyard makes much more sense.

"I met my first boyfriend at the war site," Théo continues. "He was from Quebec, and I had never heard anyone speak French like him before. I thought he was perfect."

"But?"

"It was a small town." Théo shrugs, drinking more of his wine. "I was an only child, and my parents didn't really know what to do. They sent me to my Grandmother, hoping that she could make me see sense."

I drain my glass and Théo leans over to pour some more wine. "I guess it didn't work."

"It worked, just not in the way they were expecting. She taught me so many things about the world. She's the one that sent me to Oxford. And this is her house."

"All this time I thought you grew up a spoiled brat," I tease. "Turns out you were milking cows."

"People think growing up poor is romantic," Théo says, and then hesitates. "Where did you grow up?"

"My mom was a District Attorney in New York City." Théo cringes and it startles another laugh out of me. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. I didn't grow up much of anywhere except my mother's office. There were far fewer fundraisers and garden parties than you'd think." I can see the unasked question on Théo's face, and since he told me, I decide it's only fair to reciprocate. "As for being gay, it just gave my mother another crusade to fight for. I became her worthy cause."

"That's unfair," Théo says. Until it's out of his mouth and in the air, this is something that I've never thought. "It's hard enough just being a worthy son."

"I didn't even feel unworthy," I say truthfully. "Well, at least not until Alec left." Maybe it's the reminiscing and maybe it's the wine, but thinking about Alec right now is particularly painful. It must show, because Théo's face twists back into his signature scowl.

"You still love him," he says flatly. It isn't a question, but I answer anyway.

"I don't think I'll ever stop," I admit, drunk enough to indulge in a little self-pity.

Théo's eyes narrow and he gathers up both of our wine glasses with one swift swipe of his hands. "Does Tommy know that?"

Maybe it's the rapid switch from hot-to-cold, maybe it's his mightier-than-thou sneer, or maybe it's the fact that it's just none of his damn business, but the question makes me snap. "Is that what this is about? You've been a total dick to me because you think I'm going to hurt Thomas?"

Théo just gapes at me, as if this completely unfathomable to him, so I barrel on.

"Have you _met _Thomas? He practically molested me every day for months until I finally gave in. And you know what? Fuck you and your judgmental little sighs and sidelong glares. You spend half your time telling me I have a stick up my ass and now you're going to judge me for having a little fun with my best friend?" I flush at my own use of such a juvenile term, but it's true. Thomas is my best friend. The first best friend I've ever had who didn't just fall into the position by default.

"He's my best friend too. I just don't want him to get hurt."

"Get hurt?" I laugh and lean over the table. "You're jealous," I hiss, and I know it's true. Time in the courtroom has taught me how to tell when I'm right. I continue on, emboldened by my success "Which is absurd, because Thomas is in zero danger of falling in love with me. You should be the last person to think he would – you despise everything about me!"

Théo is so close that I'm afraid I may fog up his glasses just by breathing. I can see the tiny indents in his bottom lip left by his teeth. "I –" he says, then pulls back quickly. "You're right, it's completely absurd."

I stand up quickly, gripping the table so my head doesn't spin. "You're absurd," I spit, aware even in my drunken state that I've adopted the argumentative strategy of a two year old. "And a fucking _dick_," I tack on for good measure, escaping before he has time to wipe the stupid look off his face. With any luck he'll be too drunk to remember this, and by the time I get back in two weeks he'll have returned to his normally surly but aloof self.

* * *

I feel like shit when I get up to drive to the airport in the morning. Théo's bottle of wine pushed me from pleasantly buzzed to drunken lunatic, and wine has always given me one bitch of a hangover. That's how it always goes; the only things worth having come with consequences.

Being away from California makes me realize how much I've come to enjoy spending time with Thomas – and even Théo, even though I still think he's a pompous French asshole. Thomas is in the middle of texting me this hilarious story about a guy at work who got him edible underwear for the staff Secret Santa, and Emma's face lights up with curiosity.

"You text Thomas an awful lot," she comments, her hand resting on the swell of her belly. She's on full bed rest until the end of her pregnancy, and the Cabin Fever has fully set in. She insists on living her life vicariously through the people around her, and Lucas has sacrificed me for the cause, saying that he's been paying his dues for weeks.

"Yup." I continue typing and I can practically feel her burning with curiosity.

"Do you really think that it's going to work?"

"What, Emma?"

"Your little arrangement." She shifts awkwardly on the sofa, growling in frustration when she can't get comfortable.

I smile as Thomas starts typing in all caps. "I know you're miserable Ems, but don't take it out on me."

"God, you are a shit," she groans. "I'm serious, Jay. Look at how attached you are to him. This can only end badly."

I throw my phone on the coffee table. This is just like Emma – picking a fight when she _knows _I can't fight back. "You sound just like Théo. We're just friends."

"Théo." She pauses for a second. "The roommate, right?"

"The homeowner, technically. And Grade A asshole."

Emma shifts again, turning so that she's looking directly at me. "Say again?"

"He's an asshole," I repeat. " . He's a pretentious, stubborn, _arrogant – _"

"Wow," Emma interrupts, grinning like a fucking loon this time. "Just wow." I refuse to engage, not wanting to give her the pleasure of feeling superior. "You _like_ him," she continues when I remain silent.

"I hate him." Especially the way he seems to make me feel like a three year old, even when he's not around.

"You get that weird nostril twitch when you talking about him," she says, peering at me carefully. I clamp my hand over my nose. "You _like_ him."

I try to take a different approach. "We fight all the time."

"You're a lawyer." She says this as if it's supposed to explain everything. "Fighting is like an aphrodisiac to you. It's practically foreplay."

"Please don't say foreplay, I don't want to think about you and foreplay in the same sentence. Especially when you're –" I gesture at her stomach.

"Pregnant?" she mocks whispers. Then in a ridiculous faux Southern accent, "you're absolutely right, Sir. We mustn't talk such filth around the baby."

I bury my head in my hands, trying to drown out her giggles. "Where is your husband? I think it's his turn to take over your care."

"Seriously, Jay. _This _is why the idea of you having casual sex with anyone blows my mind. You're such a prude."

"It's not that big a deal. It's not even sex, really. More like amplified cuddling." I wrap my arms around one of her throw pillows. "Lots of friends cuddle."

"Amplified cuddling?" She breaks down into giggles again. She lifts her hands up in mock display and deepens her voice to sound like a radio broadcaster. "Amplified cudding: cuddling except with dicks."

In desperate need for a break, I stalk off toward the kitchen, ignoring her as she starts coming up with inappropriate scenarios, using amplified cuddling as the punch line. I steadfastly ignore her and rifle through the freezer, looking for the container of Haagen-Dazs she was ranting about this morning. Perhaps the greatest tragedy of her pregnancy has been that she can't take a single mouthful of ice cream without instant nausea. She can, however, look at it and remember how _fucking delicious _it tastes. I grab a spoon from the drawer near the fridge and take the entire tub back to the living room with me. Victory is going to taste amazing.

Despite Emma's bed rest and annoying habit of prying into my personal life, the holiday passes quickly. She insists on keeping up with work even though she literally cannot get off the sofa, and I spend hours perfecting my lectures. Emma steadfastly avoids the topic of Alec, while I'm caught in the agonizing catch-22 of wanting to know how he's spending our first Christmas apart and knowing that hearing it will be excruciating. I debate calling my mother to ask her, but we haven't really spoken since her incident in New York, and she's probably volunteering tonight anyway.

We spend Christmas Eve like we used to when we were kids: eating countless bags of chips and watching The Princess Bride. We fall asleep in the living room and wake up at six in the morning with Lucas creeping around the living room, filling our stockings and trying not to wake us up.

When all the gifts have been opened and all the paper has been cleared away, Lucas disappears outside and comes back with an armful of black fluff.

I barely have time to register my confusion before the little black ball is being tipped into my arms and is snuffling around, licking leftover peanut butter from my fingers.

"Emma, what?" I gape at her, incapable of more intelligent speech.

"He's a Portuguese water dog," she says, smiling broadly. "I know how much you miss Kipling and Hector, even if you won't admit it. They're supposed to be really smart and he'll love the water." She looks so excited, and when the puppy gives a high-pitched bark, she nearly melts into a puddle of goo.

"He's adorable," I say, rubbing behind his floppy ears. "This is the best present, Emma." And it is incredibly thoughtful. The puppy is adorable, and I _do_ miss Kipling and Hector. I'm just not sure that a new puppy is the solution to that problem. This puppy, no matter how adorable, won't erase the pain of thinking of Magnus and Alec spending Christmas at home with _my _dogs. Just like spending time tangled up in the sheets with Thomas doesn't erase the pain of Alec's absence. Sometimes the pain is easier to mask – with work, with surfing, with amplified cuddling – but at times like this it all comes rushing back. At times like this I'm sure that despite the flashes of happiness and the acceptance that he's gone, I'll never been free of Alec's hold.

* * *

My flight back to California is cursed. There's no getting around it: it's been damned by the Gods. First, they overbook, and instead of offering me a complimentary flight or even a fucking _apology_, I get the courtesy of flying coach or not flying at all. The puppy, which still doesn't have a name, cries the entire way back, earning me more glares than the mother of the noisy twins two seats up. I'm cramped between two little old ladies who refuse to switch seats because "it's against the rules" and are carrying on the world's longest conversation about Mrs. Clancy in apartment three hundred and ten.

When I get home I'm tired, cranky, and lonely. I spent the last two days of my vacation watching Emma and Lucas make googly eyes at each other while I painted the nursery, and while I'm happy for them both, it only served to exacerbate my Christmas funk.

I put the puppy into the little carrier Emma got me, hoping that Thomas will be able to help me name him, and set off across the beach. The lights are dim when I walk up, but the tv is on and the front door is unlocked, so I walk in anyway.

I follow the hushed voices all the way to the living room, expecting to find Thomas and Théo curled up in their respective places on opposite ends of the sofa, tenuously sharing their favorite woolen blanket. Instead I find a naked Théo, sitting on the sofa, his arms resting along the back edge, head thrown back, and a small, pale, freckled body kneeling between his legs. It's Gareth, from the party; I'm sure of it even though I can't see his face.

Heat pools in my gut as Théo bites down on his bottom lip, murmuring softly in French and threading his hands through Gareth's hair. Sweat is pooling in the dips of his collarbones and glistening on his lean chest, and his thick hair is completely disheveled. He thrusts his hips upward, meeting each bob of Gareth's head in perfect time, and lets out a low, broken moan as Gareth leans down to take him even deeper.

I'm frozen, paralyzed with the fear of getting caught and pure horror at walking in on something so intimate. Heat bursts in my stomach, and I attribute it to rage. This is just so…unprofessional. Théo works with Gareth, and he's clearly taking advantage of someone who admires him greatly, and for what? He'd barely given Gareth a second glance at the party until he'd started talking to me. I can't believe he would sink so low just so that he could one-up me. I don't even _like _Gareth. I mean, clearly I like him enough to be indignant on his behalf, but that's really just common decency.

As I'm trying to figure out how to escape without interrupting the scene in front of me, the puppy decides that it's time to let out one of his high-pitched barks. Théo's head snaps back and he immediately relinquishes his grip on Gareth's head. There's a nauseating pop as Gareth pulls his mouth away, and his face floods with heat when he turns around to find me watching. Théo curses and makes a move as if to stand before remembering that he's completely naked.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, and take off for the door. I run across the beach to my house, wondering what the hell I've done in a past life to be punished like this. I let the puppy curl up on the bed by my feet, too tired to do anything else, and fall asleep hoping for a better day tomorrow.

* * *

**Château d'Yquem is a real vineyard, and doesn't belong to my character :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**I have a lot of schoolwork over the next couple of weeks, so I worked like mad to get this written today. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

I wake up the next morning to find Thomas draped against my bedroom door, wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of red and green briefs. "Merry Christmas," he purrs, not noticing that I'm nearly wetting myself with fright.

"How the hell did you get in here?" I choke out as he wriggles his way under the blankets.

"Jimmied the lock," he says, sighing in contentment as he settles into the warmth.

"Jimmied the lock?"

"That's what I said." He slips his hand down my boxers, smiling when I groan in response. "I'm excellent with my hands."

After a vigorous welcome home, Thomas settles on the bed and plays with the puppy while I do some much needed tidying.

"How about Rusty?" he muses. He buries his face in the puppy's fur, waiting for me to answer. "Fido?" I shake my head and he sighs. "Flopsy? Mopsy? Cottontail?" His hand gestures get more elaborate with each suggestion, and by the end of his rant he looks like he's having some sort of seizure.

I look up from the floor, where I'm currently organizing my ties by color. "I am not naming my dog after bunnies from a kid's book."

"People name dogs after things they like," Thomas pouts. "You don't like anything."

"I like cooking."

"Oh, well, brilliant. Let's name the dog Spatula. Or perhaps he's more of a Blender?"

I pick up my tie rack and place it carefully in the closet, equidistant between my shirts and my pants. "I should have just made Emma name him. That would have solved this entire dilemma."

Thomas looks horrified. "You can't let somebody else name your dog!"

"Right, so you're trying to tell me you named Zola? That's got Théo written all over it."

"I happen to be a great Zola fan," Thomas argues. "You could say he changed my life."

"Or I could say you're full of shit." I flop down on the bed next to Thomas and the puppy totters up to lick my face. "Hey buddy," I coo, unable to help myself. He really is adorable. "You really need a name." He leans over and licks my nose, most likely in agreement.

"Let's head over to mine," Thomas says suddenly, interrupting my conversation with the dog. "A change of scenery might help."

I freeze, unsure of what to do. With the way Théo and I parted before Christmas and the position I found him in last night, I'm pretty sure I'm the last person he wants to see. I'm also not sure that I can face him without thinking about exactly how he looked on the sofa, flushed and sweaty and thrusting into Gareth's mouth.

"Théo's gone for the weekend," Thomas says, as if he can read my mind. Not for the first time, I wonder how much those two share. I've never told Thomas to keep what we do a secret, and it's not like we're overly subtle. Still, I wonder if he's told Théo we haven't actually _fucked. _"Won't be back until tomorrow night."

"Gone again? What's he doing this time?"

"Oh, you know," Thomas says, scooping the puppy up and putting him in his carrier. "Another gallery opening or something."

"A gallery opening? Over the Christmas holidays?"

Thomas runs his hands over the carrier, smoothing down the bits of stray fabric. "Maybe it's a concert. I don't know, Jay. I'm his roommate, not his bloody mother. I don't keep track of everything he does."

It's the first time in our friendship that Thomas has snapped at me, and it hurts. My irritation flares, and I'm irrationally angry with Théo, sure that this is his fault. He manages to invade my life, even when he's not around. "I know you're not, but I find it kind of hard to believe that he disappears every second weekend to mysterious "functions" that you're never invited to and know nothing about. Call me a skeptic, but I call bullshit."

"Of course you do." Thomas puts the puppy down on the bed with a sigh. "Because you don't trust anybody."

I can't believe that Thomas would throw that back in my face. What on earth could Théo be doing to make him so defensive? "Can you blame me? The one person I trusted in my life lied to me for months before crushing my heart."

Thomas cringes, as if my words are causing him actual pain. He reaches out to touch my cheek, but I shy away. He falls down on the bed, and looks up at me with a pained expression. "I've never given you a reason not to trust me."

While this is technically true, it's also not the point. Friendships are supposed to be about sharing, and I'm so frustrated with feeling like I only know half the story. "Well you've certainly never given me a reason _to _trust you either. You and Théo are both so fucking secretive. I barely know anything about you, and what I do know other people have told me! I don't even know how you met, for Christ's sake. You know everything about me, and I know nothing about you."

"That's not fair, Jay. It's not the same."

"How is it any different? What, because it's _your _lives, not mine? Your pain instead of mine?"

Thomas just sits there for a moment, as if puzzling out what to say. "It just is, Jay." He pauses again, and then speaks hesitantly, as if he can already predict my reaction. "It's complicated."

I take the dog out of her carrier and let him run out of the room, not wanting to frighten him. I already know that there's no way I'm going over to Théo's with Thomas. Not now, and maybe not ever again. "Oh, well if it's _complicated. _Why didn't you just say so? I would have totally understood."

"Théo's secrets are not mine to tell," Thomas says after a long pause. "And as for my own, I'd rather not get into them with someone who's going to stand there and make me feel like shit. I won't reward you for being a pushy asshole." He gets up slowly and walks to the door. "I'll give you a couple of days to calm down." He looks back. "Unless you feel like apologizing."

I turn away and look out the window at the sea. The waves are high today, crashing against the beach with undue force. I refuse to apologize for something that's not my fault; perhaps Thomas won't reward an asshole, but I won't submit to ultimatums. "I meant what I said."

Thomas closes the door gently on his way out.

* * *

It's not until he's gone that I fully understand how completely Thomas has infiltrated my life. I can't watch something ridiculous on tv without wanting to text him or go for a walk without wanting his company. He's managed to weasel his way into almost every facet of my life and I miss him more than I thought I would. Whatever compunctions Emma and Théo might have about our relationship, at least I know now that it isn't about sex. In a weird way, I think the only reason I _can_ get off with Thomas is because our relationship _isn't_ sexual.

I'm just not really sure how to apologize. I'm still upset about all the secrecy and the lying, and I'm not sure that I'll be able to stop myself from lashing out again when I do try to talk to him. Part of me wishes that he would just show up at the door and pretend like the whole thing never happened. I could take a page out of Alec's book and start lying to myself. It's never seemed like an option before, but I'm starting to see the appeal. I pick up a pebble from the beach and trying skipping it, but the waves suck it away quickly.

Westley – named after the same character in The Princess Bride, because of Thomas's advice of naming your pet after something you like – starts to bark, pulling me from my thoughts. I look up, only to find Théo storming down the beach, his stupid scarf flapping in the wind. I debate make a run for it, as juvenile as that is, but Westley – the treacherous beast – scampers off in his direction, tail wagging furiously.

Théo scoops up the dog without breaking stride, and places him carefully in the sand at my feet before getting up in my face. "What the hell did you do?" he demands.

I'm so shocked at his vehemence that I answer reflexively. "I didn't do anything."

"Bullshit!" In his rage, much like his drunkenness, Théo's accent is heightened. He sounds almost like a parody of an angry French man, and if I weren't so pissed I would probably laugh. "He's moping in his bed like someone's killed his dog, and he won't tell me why."

"And you automatically assume that it's my fault?"

Théo's glare is murderous. "He doesn't have anybody else; there's just me and you. So I _know _it was you."

"Oh, you _know _it was me, do you? Well maybe you should go back and double-check your facts, before you start storming the beach like a fucking crusader. I didn't do anything to Thomas except call him on his bullshit. I'm sick of being the only one out of the loop. If Thomas were really upset about this fight, then he'd come and actually talk to me. He'd actually give a little back, instead of refusing to tell me anything about his life."

Théo kicks at the sand, startling Westley enough that he cowers behind my legs. "You selfish little bastard," he hisses. "Do you ever think about anyone but yourself? Did you ever stop to think that maybe Thomas doesn't talk about what happened before he came here because he doesn't _like_ to think about it?" He barrels on, answering his own question before I have a chance. "Of course you don't. You're too busy wallowing in self-pity to realize that you're not the only one with problems."

I'm so angry that I could drag Théo out into the ocean and drown him. I'm actually glad he cut me off on the beach, because if he had followed me home, I couldn't be certain that I wouldn't have chucked a pot of boiling water in his stupid, smug face. "Oh this is rich. You're going to call me on selfishness? After what you pulled with Gareth the other night?"

For an instant Théo backs down. His face blanches and he's quite obviously thrown. "What happened with Gareth was none of your business," he says stiffly.

"I just think it's pathetic," I press, "taking advantage of a kid who clearly admires you just so you can prove that you can."

"I don't need to_ prove_ anything." The wind whips Théo's scarf in his face and he throws it from his shoulder in rage. Westley bounds after it, clamping it between his teeth. I hope he rips it to shreds. "I don't need your permission to fuck someone."

"No, but you could at least show a modicum of fucking decorum. You don't need to leave the door wide open for anyone to walk in."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Théo bites, "but there is such a thing as spontaneity. Just because you live life like a fucking robot doesn't mean the rest of us do."

I nearly howl in frustration. I am so tired of being constantly bullied about my views on sex. Even Thomas, though he means it good-naturedly, never leaves me alone. Emma has always mocked me for being puritanical, and now Théo has started in. "What I'm like in bed is none of your business," I say, spinning around him and walking toward the house.

"But what I'm like is your business?" He scoffs. "A hypocritical lawyer, what a surprise. I bet you're absolute shit, _that's _why this is pissing you off so much – you can't stand the thought of someone else getting something that you can't have."

I turn around to face Théo, my eyes burning with the pain of holding back tears of frustration. "Maybe you're right," I choke out. "Maybe that's why my fiancé took off with a stripper."

Théo throws his hands in the air, looking as frustrated as I feel. "You can't keep throwing that back in my face," he says. "Yes, it's horrible because it is and I would never pretend otherwise, but you act as if Alec was your entire life."

"Because he was!" My voice catches and my throat burns with the effort of shouting. "I spent my four years of undergrad trying to get into Harvard Law. Then once I got there, it was a constant fucking struggle to stay at the top. You say I've never had to deal with real problems, but I bet you've never had people steal books out of your locker and cut out the pages just so that they could rise above you in the class standings. The reason you become a cutthroat lawyer is that you don't have any choice. It's either fight or fucking perish, okay. I didn't have time for a personal life, and no – sue me – I didn't have the personality for casual sex. When I met Alec he became the first person that I had trusted, ever. He was the first _everything _for me. So don't chase after me and pretend like you know anything that I've been through. Maybe I'm not spontaneous and maybe I am uptight, but don't you ever tell me that my problems don't matter. Maybe Thomas has been through hell, and maybe the reason you keep disappearing every couple of weeks is a matter of life or death, but that does _not_ negate what I've been through. That's not the way pain works, asshole."

Théo just stands there, dumbstruck. His face twists, his rage dissolving into pity. And well that, that is the last thing I want from him. "Don't you dare," I snarl, gathering Westley up in my arms, Théo's stupid scarf still trapped in his teeth. "I don't want your pity and I don't want your apologies. Just leave me the hell alone."

I don't turn around until I'm safely inside with the door locked. When I finally glance out the window I see that Théo is in the same position he was when I left, staring at the house with his hands in his pockets, not even bothering to move as the spray rises steadily higher.

I've just settled the dog into his kennel for a nap when the phone rings. It's in the next room and I ignore it, sure that it's either Théo or Thomas, neither of whom I want to speak with right now. It goes to voicemail and I start getting ingredients out of the fridge for homemade Reese's peanut butter cups; if I'm going to be miserable, then I may as well be stuffing my face while I'm doing it. The phone rings another two times while I'm making the cookies, prompting me to start swearing on an actual _appliance_ and thus question my entire worldview.

I'm halfway through the dishes when it rings for the fourth time. I'm starting to crumble a little; if Thomas is this upset, then maybe I should pick up. It's only when it doesn't stop ringing that I think that something might be up. Whoever is on the other line lets it ring and ring and ring until voicemail eventually kicks in. A little panicked that something might be wrong with Emma and the baby, I hastily wipe my hands and sprint to the next room, swiping the phone from the table with shaking hands. When it starts ringing again I nearly drop it on the floor.

It's Alec.

I hesitate, but I know I can't ignore the call. He would never be this persistent over something trivial. A cold sense of foreboding spreads out in my chest, and I pray that nothing has happened to Isabelle, Jace, or Maryse. I've long given up hope that Alec will call to tell me he wants a second chance, so I know that something must be terribly wrong.

"Hello?" I can hear Alec's quick breath of relief that I've finally picked up.

"Jay." It's like his voice is a faucet and hearing it turns on a flood of memories that I have no control over. I know why Emma told me that we would never be able to be friends; there's a breaking point for love, and once you surpass that, you'll never be able to go back to the person you were before. Alec could never be anything less than what he was to me; my heart would never be able to accept it.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Kipling." Alec makes a small, pained noise in the back of his throat, and the urge to reach out and comfort him is almost painful. My own horror at hearing the news is subsidiary – I just want to make sure that Alec is all right.

"I'm sure it's nothing," I start, but he cuts me off.

"No, he's really sick." I hear a sniffle and my heart aches. "He needs to be put down, Jay, the vet told me today."

"Alec, I'm so sorry."

"Will you come say goodbye?" When I don't answer Alec sniffles again and I'm sure that if he asked me take Magnus and give him a surf lesson I would happily agree. "It's just that he's never really gotten over you leaving. He looked for you weeks when I came home, and I think it would really make him happy before – you know." His voice starts to shake and I can hear someone whispering quietly in the background. It's Magnus, I'm sure of it. He's the one who gets to comfort Alec now. My stomach twists and I walk toward the bathroom, just in case.

"Of course I'll come, Alec. I'm driving to the airport right now."

"You could take the Lightwood jet," Alec says.

"That won't be necessary." I've only been on the Lightwood jet a couple of times, but that was enough to create a couple of memories I certain don't want to relive. "There are flights going out all the time. I'll be there in the morning."

"Thanks, Jay."

"Anytime," I breathe. And then, after he's hung up, "I love you."

Time is of the essence, so I throw together a quick overnight bag and put Westley in his carrier. I throw my bag in my car on my way to Thomas's house. When I get there I don't bother knocking, and instead barge right in. Thomas and Théo are sitting at the table, eating together and locked in what appears to be heavy conversation.

Théo is facing me, and his eyes widen comically when he sees me burst through the door. "Jay," he says, his fork dropping to his plate with a clatter. Thomas spins around so fast that he almost falls off his chair, and jumps up to greet me.

"I don't have a lot of time," I say, shoving the carrier into his hands. "Please, will you take care of Westley for a few days for me?"

Thomas puts the carrier down on his chair and grabs my arms, holding them tightly. "Jay, what the hell is wrong? You look like you're having some kind of breakdown."

"It's Alec," I say. "He called and I need to go to New York."

Thomas moves his hands from my arms to my face, holding it steady. "Breathe, Princess. Now tell me why you need to go to New York."

"It's my dog, Kipling," I say. A wave of sadness settles over me as I speak the words I've been try to push away from my mind since Alec called. "He's being put down tomorrow and I have to go say goodbye."

"Oh, Jay." Thomas pulls me in for a hug, squeezing me tightly enough to cut off my air supply. I look up and see Théo rising from his chair. He pours up a glass of water and brings it over, handing it to me without a word.

"We'll drive you to the airport," he says as soon as my mouth is full and I can't argue. "It'll be quicker that way."

"You don't have – "

"We want to," Thomas insists, leaning over to brush his lips against my temple. "That's what friend do, Jay."

I take the last gulp of my water and nod my thanks. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get words out without losing it, and Thomas and Théo seem to understand.

"I'll drive," Théo says, grabbing my keys and sliding into his sandals. "If I can make it from Beaumont Hamel to Arras in twenty-one minutes during harvest season, I can get you to LAX in time to make a flight."

Not understanding a word of what that means, but willing to take the favor anyway, I wait for Thomas to settle Westley into a room where he can't get into trouble, and then pile in the car to begin the long trip to New York.

* * *

Even with the overnight flight, mad dash to my mother's apartment to get cleaned up and changed, and breakfast consisting only of half a muffin my mother's doorman gives me because he think I look pathetic, I still only make it to the vet's office with ten minutes to spare. Thankfully Alec hasn't arrived yet, so I have time to compose myself before I have to see him again. I pace around the parking lot, cursing myself for not bringing a warmer coat. January in Las Angeles can make a person forget about the biting wind and wet snow, but thirty seconds back on the east coast is all it takes to bring all those memories crashing down.

I've just started dancing on the spot when I see Alec's familiar truck pull in. Back when we first started dating, that truck was one of the reasons I fell in love with him; like Alec, it's entirely unpretentious and unexpected. I certainly couldn't believe that a _Lightwood_ was driving one. It seemed impossible that the same family my mother mooned over and counted on for benefits and party fundraisers could have spawned the kind of guy who would drive around in a truck like that.

As he parks the truck and shuts off the engine, I start to shake. I feel acutely nauseous, and for the first time in my life, entirely unprepared. I'm thankful that I don't have my own car, because when I see Magnus step out of Alec's truck and walk to the driver's side to meet him, I'm sure that I would drive away and never look back. Over time I've tried to convince myself that there's nothing special about Magnus Bane – that he's stupid and inconsiderate and unattractive when he's not fully made up and cast under flattering lighting. But here, looking at him in his understated black jeans and form-fitting winter jacket, I know at least one of those is completely false. As I see him whisper something quietly in Alec's ear, squeezing gently on his shoulder, I get the sneaking suspicion that none of them are true.

Steeling myself for the inevitable blow of first contact, I make my way toward Alec's truck, holding my head high and schooling my features into the impartial expression I use in court. Magnus shifts a little closer to Alec's side as I approach, and they thread their fingers seamlessly. I pretend not to notice, and push away the sharp stab of pain that accompanies.

"Thank you for coming," Alec says as soon as we're close enough to talk. "I'm really happy you did."

"Well," I say briskly, wanting to keep this as no-nonsense as possible. "He's my dog too."

Magnus moves forward almost imperceptibly, but Alec brushes his hand up his sleeve and he settles back. I almost wish he _would_ do something. My nerves are frayed, and Magnus looks about as sturdy as a house of cards. It wouldn't be good manners to hit your ex-fiancé's new boyfriend outside a veterinary clinic, but sometimes we have to make due with what life gives us.

"Someone came to pick Kipling up earlier today," Alec continues, his voice a little too fast and a little too high. "He can't really walk, so it would have been too hard to try to move him ourselves."

I just nod and Alec's voice trails off. We enter the building together, and Alec takes the lead, directing us to the back room that's used as an area for families to say goodbye. To my disappointment, but not really surprise, Magnus also follows him back. Swallowing my irritation, I stand off to the side as the three of us approach the final door. Magnus, unfortunately, is much more astute than I have previously given him credit for.

"I hope it doesn't bother you, James," he said quietly.

I know he's only trying to be polite, but my emotions are already on overdrive, and the last fucking thing I wanted today was for Magnus Bane to try to strike up a conversation. "You hope it doesn't bother me? No, _Magnus_, by all means. You already stole my fiancé, so by all means, take my dog too."

"Jay!" Alec sounds horrified, but Magnus just bristles, his green eyes flashing.

"You can't _steal _a person," he says lowly, obviously not wanting to cause a commotion.

"Magnus, please." Alec slips his hand into Magnus's again and then turns to me. "Jay, don't be upset. Magnus just wants to say goodbye; he loves Kipling too."

"Of course he does," I snap back viciously, "Kipling belonged to somebody else first."

Magnus moves forward, ready to say something back, but Alec gives him a strong tug and steps between us, looking livid. "Look," he says, "this is a horrible situation and most of it is my fault, but if you two don't shut the fuck up and get along for thirty seconds, then neither of you are coming in."

Even if I had wanted to argue, the sight of Alec losing his temper like that would have rendered me incapable. He really has changed since we broke up. I don't know if that makes it hurt more or less.

"Magnus, you come in with me first," Alec says firmly, as if daring either of us to argue. "You can say goodbye and then send Jay in."

The two of them disappear into the room together and I quietly try to resist the urge to punch a wall. The minutes tick by, and eventually Magnus exits the room with a red nose and blurry eyes. He breezes right past me without a second glance, and I open the door to step in.

When I approach the table, Kipling whines and shoves his giant muzzle into my hands. It's hard to reconcile this frail creature with the proud, strong dog I knew, and I feel the first tears starting to pool.

"He missed you so much," Alec says, having given up his own battle with tears.

Kipling licks my hand, whining softly until I lean down to press my cheek to his fur. I run my hand down his back, cringing when I feel his ribs so near the surface. Alec places his hand on top of mine and leans down as well. "I'm so sorry," he whispers into Kipling's fur, and I'm not entirely sure which one of us he's talking to.

"It's okay," I answer, knowing that it's probably both. "I'm here now."

Kipling whines again and my tears start to flow in earnest, staining his grey fur black. "Goodbye, buddy," I choke, wrapping my arms around his neck for one last hug. "I'm gonna miss you."

"I need a few more minutes with him," Alec says, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Do you think you'll still be out there when I'm done?"

"I doubt it."

Alec takes a step toward me. "Jay, I – "

I move back, unsure of what I'll do if Alec actually touches me. "Don't. Alec, I'm sorry but I don't want to hear it, whatever it is." I turn to walk toward the door. Just before I leave, I look back to find Alec doubled over into Kipling's side, and I can't stop the rush of emotion that overtakes me. "Alec, you're going be okay, right?"

"Yeah, I'll be okay."

"He'll take care of you?"

"Yeah, he will."

"Goodbye, Alec." The tears are still flowing freely, and I don't do anything to stop them.

"Bye Jay," he says softly. "Take care of yourself."

I manage to make it past Magnus Bane without losing it. I save that for the parking lot, where I hunker down behind a parked car and let go of everything I've been holding in for the past sixteen hours. When I've exhausted what energy I had left I call a cab and get him to bring me directly to the airport. I'll get my mother to send me my things, because I can't spend another second in New York City.

* * *

I spend the flight in a haze of grief, fatigue, and whiskey. It's still pitch black when the cab drops me at home, and it takes several tries to get the key in the door and get inside. I'm still wearing a winter jacket and two sweaters, and I can barely breathe for the heat.

I strip off layers as I walk, discarding clothes along the kitchen floor. Once I'm down to my boxers I grab a bottle of whisky from its place above the stove and pour up a couple of shots. Just as I'm tipping the second one back I hear footsteps creeping across the kitchen and turn to find Théo standing at my island.

"You left the door unlocked," he says, looking directly at my face. "I thought you might need some company."

"Its…five thirty-three," I slur, tipping back another shot. "Why the hell are you awake?"

"Couldn't sleep," he says. "I saw the cab, and well." He gestures at himself and then lets his arms fall to his sides.

"I don't think I'll be very good company," I say truthfully, ignoring the burn of the fourth shot. "I've had a trying couple of days."

Théo steps forward and grabs the bottle from my hand, pushing gently against my chest when I make a swipe for it. "I think you've had enough, Jay."

I place my hand over his, pinning it to my chest. His hands are so smooth; not at all like someone who grew up on a farm. They're also much smaller than mine. "I wasn't finished."

Théo gently pries his hand away and puts the bottle on the counter. "I think you should try to get some sleep," he says gently, herding me down the hallway.

I walk toward my room, nearly tripping on a dip in the floor along the way. Théo's arms shoot out to help me, but I don't actually fall. I turn sharply into my room, and he follows closely behind, his hand twitching reflexively toward his pocket.

"I hired Magnus Bane, you know," I say when I've settled into on top of the blankets. For some reason I feel like this is very important information.

"What?"

"The stripper. The one that Alec left me for. I hired him for Alec's twenty-fifth birthday."

"I'm sorry." He really does look sorry, perched awkwardly on the side of my bed.

"Don't be. I suppose it would have happened anyway. Apparently I didn't make him very happy. He seems better off without me."

"He didn't deserve you," Théo says fiercely, moving a little closer.

"That's not true at all." I think of how sad Alec was yesterday, how broken he sounded when saying goodbye. "He was so good." My voice falters and I can't remember what I was going to say, so I just press my face into my pillow, mumbling bits of utter nonsense under my breath.

"You're always taking care of things," Théo murmurs quietly, and I'm fairly sure that he doesn't intend for me to hear him. "But who takes care of you?"

"I don't need to be taken care of," I spit into the pillow. I've been taking care of myself for as long as I can remember, so I don't really know what Théo is talking about. I can't really give it proper thought though; my head is starting to feel hazy, and it's getting harder to keep my eyes open.

"Oh, Jay," Théo says, and his voice sounds very far away. "Everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes." I feel the soft fabric of my blanket being pulled up to my shoulders and I shiver, snuggling into the warmth. I hear Théo's footsteps as he walks over to the door, but by the time he leaves I'm already asleep.

* * *

**Oh, Jay. I am pleased to report that things will get a little better from. Of course, I can't promise that they all won't fall to shit again soon (in fact, I can almost promise they will...)**


	5. Chapter 5

**So this chapter ran away with me. Swept me off to distant lands and seduced me with wine and chocolate. Seriously, it had a mind of it's own and is LONG. So I didn't get through everything I wanted, but I hope you still enjoy! **

* * *

When I wake up there's a glass of water and two advil sitting on the table next to the bed. First I panic, wondering if I managed to pick someone up between the airport and home and what manner of sexually transmitted infections they could have passed on in our drunken coupling. As I'm scouring the floor for a used condom, pieces of the morning slowly click into place, and I vaguely remember Théo guiding me to bed. I have no idea how he got in. My stomach swoops sickeningly – what if I _asked _him to come? I pull out my phone and scan carefully through the calls, but I don't see any from this morning. I don't know how pathetic I must have been to warrant getting this treatment, but I can only assume that it was a truly stunning display.

I roll over to grab the water and find that my head is actually not that bad. Go figure. I drink a couple glasses of wine and have to sit through the plane ride from hell, but I down nearly a flask of whiskey and everything is sunshine and daisies. I just wish I could remember what happened with Théo.

Once I've showered, cooked and eaten a pound of bacon, and cleaned the kitchen, I figure it's time to man up and face Thomas and Théo. Westley has probably peed all over their apartment, and they shouldn't have to be subjected to that – especially after how nice they were after Alec called. Thomas could have easily refused to talk to me – like he said he was going to – and I've long since given up on trying to figure out what mood Théo's going to be in when we talk. I'm surprised he didn't try to push me out over the balcony last night while I was drunk and vulnerable. He probably could have made it look like an accident.

Thomas's face lights up when he opens the door to find me on the other side.

"Jay," he says, pulling me into a long hug. "How are you? How was the visit?"

"Is it okay if we talk about it later?"

Thomas, obviously upset with himself for even asking, just pulls me into another hug. "Of course we can. We don't have to talk about it at all if you don't want you."

And doesn't that feel like a punch in the gut. After everything I said to him about secrets and sharing, and he just accepts my silence easily. Not one to ignore my mistakes, I try to apologize, but I'm immediately shut down.

"You can't just change the way you are overnight," Thomas says, ushering me over to a chair. "Twenty seven years of being a control freak is not just going to go away because you're sorry." I mean to object to being called a control freak, but he starts rubbing my shoulders, kneading at the knots that have formed over the course of the cross-country trip from hell, and the ability to talk just kind of flies out the window.

"How's Westley?" I ask instead, a little worried that he's not out here nipping at my heels.

"I wouldn't really know," Thomas answers, laughing as I groan in pleasure. "He hasn't really left Théo's side." He hauls out his phone and shows me a picture of the two of them curled up on Théo's bed. "See?"

"That's," – _adorable_, my mind supplies – "a good way to end up with a bed full of pee."

"I don't think he'd mind." Thomas slips the phone back in his pocket and gets back to rubbing my shoulders. "He's kind of attached."

We lapse into a companionable silence. That's the true measure of a friend, I think – being able to spend time doing nothing and still be perfectly comfortable. Thomas hums some song I don't know under his breath, and I start to nod off.

I'm just slipping into the beginning of a dream when Thomas speaks. "I think we should go out tonight."

My head snaps back, though I'm not sure if it's from surprise or fright. "You think we should go out tonight? Like _out_ out?"

Thomas takes the seat next to me and grins. "I can really see why you're such a big-shot in court – you've got a way with words."

"Fuck you."

"As always, I'm just waiting on you, Princess."

My heart squeezes at the stupid nickname, though I do my best to scowl forbiddingly. Thomas really seems like he's over the fight. I have no illusions about my own capacity to forgive and forget; I probably wouldn't have come back if Alec hadn't called. It's really the only good thing to come out of that entire situation.

"That's not what I meant to ask, _asshole_," I say, pinning Thomas's wrists to the table and leaning in, but staying just too far away for him to kiss me. I raise an eyebrow, smirking a little at the way he shifts in his chair. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

There's a small crash behind us, and I turn to find Théo standing by the wall with Westley in his arms and a bowl of puppy chow overturned at his feet. "_Merde_," he mutters under his breath, bending down to try to pick up the food without upsetting the puppy.

I scramble over to try to help, ignoring his angry muttering and protests. Once the food is picked up and the puppy resituated so that he can continue his mid-afternoon nap in Théo's arms, Théo reaches out and touches my hand. "Are you okay?"

Crap. I want to ask what happened last night, but I'm afraid of what the answer will be. Better to just pretend I remember everything and let the awkwardness fade away with time. "Much better," I say. And then, after a second, "thanks."

Théo has no choice but to sit at the table with us, but it's easy to tell that he'd rather be anywhere else. I try to ignore his discomfort and tell myself that the sooner he gets over whatever I did or said last night, the better.

"So?" I ask Thomas, launching back into our prior conversation. "Am I the one who should be having a panic attack now. Have you – how did you put this a few months ago – _gone and fallen in love with me?_"

"Not bloody likely," Thomas teases. "You're not _that _gorgeous." He moves closer and runs a hand up my bicep. "Well, maybe you are. But just imagine how many lives would be ruined. How many hearts would be shattered." He sighs, bringing his knees up to support his chin. "I just can't have that on my conscious."

Though I know laughing does nothing more than feed his ego, it's impossible not to. "It could be an elaborate ruse to get me into bed," I point out.

Westley barks loudly and Théo flushes when we turn our heads, as if it's his fault the dog is awake.

"You do think highly of yourself, don't you?" Thomas leans back, stretching so that his t-shirt rides up. "_If _I were trying to seduce you," he says, "I have better moves than burgers and beer."

"Burgers and beer? Woah, you spoil me."

Thomas grins and leans over to kiss me quickly. "Didn't I tell you, Princess? You're paying."

* * *

Théo opts to stay home – ostensibly to look after Westley, but probably because he's still embarrassed about whatever happened between us last night. I think about asking Thomas, but if the strange looks he's been throwing at him all morning mean anything I don't think he knows.

The burger joint he brings me to is actually pretty nice. It's got secluded booths, dim lighting, and a fantastic drink menu. He seems to know everyone who works at the bar, so I can only assume that I'm not the first guy he's brought here. Also, any lasting reservations I had that this may be a date are shattered when he saunters up to the bar and manages to come back with three drinks from three different guys. He shoves one – a light blue concoction – across the table. "Compliments of the guy in the pink t-shirt."

I glance over and the guy winks at me. He's pretty cute, in a surfer-boy sort of way, with narrow hips and floppy blonde hair, but I'm not really interested.

"You're sure the drink was supposed to be for me?"

"Uh, yeah." Thomas leans over and runs his hands through my hair. "Do you have any idea how absolutely mind-boggling attractive you are? I mean, I can never be sure if I want to fuck you or just pinch you to make sure you're real."

"Do you think I'm sexy?" I don't ask the question to be coy – I'm legitimately interested in Thomas's answer.

"Sexy? Jay, I would pay to lick ice cream off your abs, and I'm lactose intolerant."

"That's not what I meant." I fiddle with the salt and pepper shakers, sprinkling out small piles and then sweeping them onto the floor. "I mean, do I have sex appeal? Like, if I winked at you would you immediately think of all the dirty things I could do?"

Thomas bursts out laughing, which says more than any answer he has to give, really. "Jay, if you winked at me I'd assume you were possessed by body-snatchers. Wait wait, hey now." He reaches out and rubs my hand. "I think so many dirty things about you," he says encouragingly. Filthy, really. I'd be locked up if you could only read my mind."

"Forget about it." I flick the shakers across the table. It's not like I didn't know the answer. Once, after Alec and I had been dating for a few months, I tried to give him a sexy striptease. My foot had caught in my laptop's cord with me realizing, and when I lifted my leg I dragged the entire contents of my desk onto the floor. In every other aspect of my life I know exactly what to do and exactly what to say, but I ended up with the sex appeal of a hippopotamus.

"Magnus Bane is sexy," I say morosely, resting my chin against my folded hands. "He moves like he was put on this Earth to drive you wild. One wink from him and you know that he would be the fuck of your life."

"Really?" Thomas leans forward with an exaggerated leer. "Where do I sign up?"

"That's not funny, Thomas."

"I know, I know, poor taste. But honestly Jay, fuck Magnus Bane. And fuck that ponce of an ex-fiancé too. He didn't deserve you."

The words spark a strange sense of déjà vu; Emma must have said them to me before. I pick up the blue drink and take a sip – it's not that bad, actually. "You're obligated to say that. Plus, you don't even know him."

"I know enough to make that call. I know _you_, and I know that anyone who could treat you poorly isn't worth your time."

Though I appreciate the sentiment, I know that Thomas and Emma don't really understand. They don't know Alec, not like I did. It's easy to say that he didn't deserve me when they've never seen him at his most vulnerable, when they've never felt what it's like to be loved by him. I take another sip of the blue drink and raise an eyebrow. "So is this why you brought me here, for a pep talk? To force me to drown my sorrows in beef and electric lemonade instead of whiskey?"

"Actually, no." Thomas fiddles with the rim of his glass, running his finger along the edge until it starts to hum. "I've been thinking about our little tiff and decided that you were right."

"Thomas, you don't have to do that just because I'm upset right now. I was just being an asshole."

Thomas grins. "You're right, you were being an asshole. But I was kind of being an asshole too. I wasn't giving you enough credit." He sighs and resumes playing with his glass. The waitress walks by, depositing a basket of tortilla chips in the center of our table, and Thomas winks at her as she walks away. He picks up a chip and cracks it in half, then into quarters before popping each piece into his mouth individually.

He's _nervous_, which is something I'm not expecting, and it makes me feel even worse. "Seriously Thomas, if you don't want to tell me, it's fine. We're still friends, you know."

"I know, it's just," he laughs while exhaling, and the sound is high-pitched and wheezy, like a cartoon villain. "It's just bloody difficult, all right? I've done some things that I'm not proud of, and you're just so, so – "

"Uptight?" I supply. "Square. Boring?"

"So good," Thomas finishes. "Like, I bet you never had a drink until you turned 21. Probably never smoked a joint or even driven without a seatbelt."

"I'm a lawyer, Thomas. We don't exactly have a rep for being angels."

"Yes, but you didn't exactly _deny_ any of that."

It's true. I've always had a pathologic need to obey the rules, which Emma insists is part of the Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. She'd always made it sound like a flaw – like something she'd be able to _cure_ me of – but somehow Thomas makes it seem like a compliment.

"I guess there's no way to do this but to come right out with it." He finishes off his first drink and slams the glass down with a little too much force. "When I first met Théo I was a thief."

"A thief?" That is _not _what I was expecting. For one thing, if someone told me that Thomas was involved in illegal activities, _thief _wouldn't be the first one I thought of. "Like, car thief?"

"Not exactly." The waitress arrives again, this time with our food. "Thanks, sweetheart," Thomas says, digging into his burger. "This is delicious." She flushes and then hands me my veggie burger without breaking eye contact with Thomas. I'm surprised my fries don't end up in my lap.

When she heads back to the kitchen, Thomas turns to me, brandishing a fry. "You see what happened there?"

"Uh, yeah. That waitress almost tipped my food in my lap in an effort to flirt with a gay guy."

"Precisely. Now, why would a young girl ignore a hot piece of ass such as yourself?"

"Thomas this is stupid."

"I'm serious, Jay. You're at least twice as hot as me, and that's taking the sexy accent into account. But she still wanted everything to do with me and nothing to do with you."

"Yeah, because you flirted with her."

Thomas bites his fry. "Partially. But guys flirt with her all the time. She's a waitress; she probably hates guys flinging themselves at her."

"Thomas, you're gay."

"Really?" Thomas sucks on a fry lewdly. "Thanks for letting me know. And for making my second point: she either didn't know, which is unlikely, as she's seen me here with at least twenty different guys, or she didn't care."

"So, what, you're trying to say your flirting prowess is how you became a thief?"

"The key to stealing something is making someone trust you," Thomas says. "People are desperate to share their secrets – they just need someone they think wants to listen."

"So what happened? Théo was like your backer or something?"

Thomas laughs and almost chokes on a fry? "Théo? You do know he grew up on a farm, right? His moral code is almost as strict as yours. No, Théo wasn't my backer, Théo was a _mark._"

"A mark? This sounds like a bad spy movie."

"It's really not that uncommon. I was young, broke, and had nowhere to go. My mum kicked me out once I started skipping school and I was always pretty persuasive."

"So what did Théo have that you wanted? A painting or something?"

"No, actually." Thomas grins again, taking a sip of water. "He had a bottle of wine."

"A bottle of _wine?_ You tried to con Théo for a bottle of wine?"

"A twenty thousand dollar bottle of wine, to be precise. From Chateau d'Yquem."

My heart stutters in my chest as I think of Thomas uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring it in two glasses. Was that a _twenty thousand dollar bottle of wine_? And if it was, why the hell did he share it with me – because I went to Thomas's rescue when he couldn't? I push the thoughts away for another time. "So what happened?"

"I got caught." Thomas smiles as if remembering a fond memory rather than a potential disaster. "I tried for a solid week to get Théo to take me home," he says, "but the bastard just wanted nothing to do with me. I was desperate, so I followed him home and snuck in. When he caught me he said that he'd suspected all along; that someone like me would never be interested in someone like him." Thomas takes a bite of his burger and chews thoughtfully. "Much like yourself, he's never known his own worth."

My own burger lies on my plate untouched, so I finally pick it up and take a bite. Thomas was right – it is delicious. "Obviously he didn't turn you in?"

"On the contrary, he offered me a cup of tea. And being the sentimental fool I am, I burst into tears. He let me stay for the night, and then wrote me a check to send to my employers. I have no idea how much it was for, but it did the trick. Nobody bothered me after that."

"And Théo gained a permanent roommate?"

"Personal body slave, more like." Thomas huffs. "He hasn't done a load of laundry since."

"Seems like a fair price to pay." I don't say anything further. Théo's reasons for helping Thomas, whether they were romantic, philanthropic, or just plain inexplicable, are his to share. For once in my life I hold my tongue and just pick up my burger.

Thomas smiles and waves the waitress back over for another drink. "Indeed it does," he says.

* * *

When we get home Théo is out on the beach, playing with Westley. In the time that I've been gone, it looks like the puppy has actually learned to fetch. His fur is wet and clumped with sand from rolling around and there's a bit of seaweed stuck to his head.

"Looks like you guys have been having a good time," I say as I make my way closer.

"He's fantastic," Théo says, taking a stick from Westley's mouth and throwing it into the sea. Westley bounds in after it happily. "Did you like the burgers?"

"Yeah, the food was awesome." I'm not really sure what else to say, and an awkward silence threatens to end our exchange.

"I was thinking," Théo says, bending down to take the stick from Westley once again. "That I could help you with your surfing." He looks up. "If you still wanted?"

"I, sure." I look down at Théo, his face reddened by the sun, and feel suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, as long as you're not doing it because you feel sorry for me about the whole Alec thing."

Théo tenses slightly, but the fires the stick toward the water and stands up. "I'm sorry I was a bit of an asshole before." He brushes his hand along his pocket, but he doesn't take anything out.

"It's okay." When Westley returns this time I scoop him up in my arms. He yelps, gnawing on my chin a little before settling into the crook of my elbow. "Thanks for taking care of Wes for me."

Théo reaches out to clean the sand from Westley's paws and his pinky brushes against my arm. The touch is like fire, and spreads up my arm, prompting a small intake of breath. Théo, thankfully, is too caught up in Westley to notice. "So, today then?"

Théo looks up, surprised. "Today?"

"Yeah, I have some French fries to work off. I just have to run up and put Wes in his kennel and get my stuff."

"Sure." Théo's rolling r is actually kind of cute, now that he doesn't look like he wants to see me gutted and hung. "I'll meet you back here in half an hour."

* * *

Surfing with Théo becomes a regular thing. He starts spending a lot less time on the beach with a book, and a lot more time in the water. Strangely, the inverse can be said for Thomas. It seems like the more time I spend with Théo, the more excuses Thomas has to go out. He still comes over, to watch me grade papers and to help me unwind after particularly stressful days at work, but around Théo he gets strangely fidgety. When I ask him about it he just tells me I'm being an idiot, so eventually I stop asking.

Théo, it turns out, is a fantastic teacher. Better than I could ever hope to be.

"It's the tutoring," he says, flushing slightly.

That's another thing: he's horrible at taking compliments. After a few weeks I begin to wonder how I ever took him for surly and sour, when he's really just shy and introverted. Sure, he's quick to argue – he doesn't have Thomas's easygoing nature – but he's not half as bad as I'd thought. He's even stopped smoking around me – a fact I've been meaning to bring up.

I paddle out toward him, watching with envy as he shows off a little with perfect form. "Wanna head back in?" I ask when he finally makes his way over to me.

"Sure."

We paddle in silence, and I'm glad that it's no longer awkward. We may not ever be as close as either of us is with Thomas, but I think we've become good friends over the past few months.

"Jay?" Théo reaches out to grab my arm as we're nearing shore.

"Hm?"

He reaches up and runs his fingers quickly through my hair. It's curly now, and often hangs down in my face as I'm trying to grade papers. Thomas is delighted with it, taking every opportunity he can to pull or play with it, but I've gotten the feeling that Théo doesn't really like it that much – maybe because it makes me look about five years younger than him, and he doesn't want to seem like a creep when we're spending time on the beach. "There's seaweed in your hair."

He smiles and holds out his hand, showing me the little brown piece of kelp, but I'm so taken aback that he would reach out and touch me so casually that I end up with a mouthful of seawater.

Théo laughs while I splutter, and is still chuckling when we make it back to shore. He rifles through his things for a towel, throwing his lighter back in his bag as soon as it falls out.

"You don't have to avoid it because of me, you know." I run the towel through my curls, knowing full well I'm going to look like carrot top once they dry.

"Avoid what?"

"Smoking. I know I was a dick about it before, but I'm not asthmatic or anything."

"Actually," Théo says, suddenly preoccupied with a book that's sticking out of the corner of his bag. "I quit."

"You quit?"

"It was getting really tiresome," he says. "You're not allowed to smoke on university grounds anymore, so I was using up my entire lunch breaks just to find somewhere to have a cigarette."

I debate telling him about the secret nook that everyone from the Law department uses because campus enforcement so rarely walks by, but then decide against it. You're supposed to care about your friends' health, right? Telling him would only be a setback. "That's awesome," I say, pulling out a book I'm using to plan one of my later lectures.

To my surprise, Théo reaches over and snaps it shut. "No work," he says. "It's time to have fun. You do know what fun is, right?"

"Shut up." I throw the book to the side and lean back, tugging my wetsuit down and letting the sun warm my chilly skin. "You sound just like –"

"Tommy?" Théo says, lying down beside me.

"Alec," I finish quietly. It's the first time I've thought of him in a few days – a phenomenon that elates me and terrifies me in equal measure.

Théo immediately shuts down. He _hates _talking about Alec. I'm not sure why, but I think it's equal parts Thomas and the elusive Riley. I still have no idea what happened between Théo and his ex-boyfriend, but I do know that it was enough to turn him from dating for a while, since he hasn't had a steady boyfriend in over a year.

Théo sits up swiftly, and I follow suit, bracing myself for an argument. To my surprise, Théo doesn't even raise his voice. "Was he really that special?"

I'm not really sure how I'm supposed to answer, so I decide that the truth is what works best. "Yeah, he was." I look down at the sand, tracing the outline of a rock. "I know that's pathetic to say, especially after he cheated on me, but it's true."

"Attractive?"

"He looks a lot like Thomas." Théo's eyes flash and I scramble to explain. "Thomas knows – I told him the first night we… I told him the first night, okay?" I reach in my bag and pull out my wallet. Then, from its place behind my UCLA id card, I pull out a picture of Alec. "See?"

Théo looks at the picture and then plucks it from my hand and rips it in half.

"What the fuck, Théo!"

"That's unhealthy," he says flatly. "Carrying around a picture of the guy who dumped you almost a year ago? You're never going to get over it if you keep around shit like this."

"That's not your decision to make." I gather up my stuff and storm toward the house, hoping that Théo will just forget about this by the morning.

Instead, he follows me up from the beach. "How much more of this crap do you have in there?"

"None," I lie, pushing the key into the lock with shaking fingers. "And it's none of your business!"

"It _is _my business," Théo argues. "I'm your friend, Jay. And friends don't let friends make creepy shrines to their ex-boyfriends."

"Ex-fiancé!"

"Whatever!" Théo pushes past me and walks straight into the kitchen. Westley bounds up to him, greeting him with playful nips at the ankles. He turns to me, suddenly serious. "Tell me you want to stay like this," he says. "Tell me that you're happy pining over some asshole who treated you like shit, and I'll leave."

"Alec didn't treat me like shit," I say.

"That's not a _yes, I want to live like this, Th__é__o_," he says. "So let's get to it."

After an hour we've managed to purge most of Alec from my house. There are pictures, a couple of DVDs, and a bag full of birthday and anniversary cards, all of which Théo promises to personally bring to the nearest garbage dump. Once everything is gathered together, the sheer volume of it makes me realize that I have been making this harder on myself. Alec's been gone for nearly a year, and he's been with Magnus for nearly half of that time. Thinking he'll come back – _wanting _him to come back – has gone from pathetic to downright idiotic.

Still, throwing away all this stuff makes it feel final in a way that nothing – not even seeing him with Magnus – has. I feel discombobulated, like I may just explode if I don't find some way to channel my energy. Usually that means finding Thomas, but I think it would be pretty rude to just push Théo out the door and ask him to please send his roommate over for a stress-release hand job. Instead, I make my way to the kitchen and pull out a recipe book I haven't had the chance to use yet.

"Want to stay for dinner?" I ask, when Théo finishes pouring some water for Westley.

"Um, sure. Do you want any help?"

"No, you can just sit there." I point at a chair near the island. "Thomas usually tells me dirty stories about the guys he hooks up with, but I'll forgive you if you just read your book. I can get a little lost in the process anyway."

Théo takes my offer, and is halfway through the small novel that was poking out of his bag by the time the food is ready. I arrange it neatly on the plate, and quickly put away the ingredients and start to soak the pots and pans as Théo gets us something to drink.

"Wow," he says when I put the plates on the table. "It's very fancy."

"Yeah, it's really supposed to be for parties, but I figured I should try it out before I served it to guests."

"Happy to be your experiment," Théo says, raising his glass in a toast. "Do you always cook like this?" he asks after a few moments.

"Like what?"

"Like this, with recipes and fancy arrangements."

"I guess so." I like instructions.

"It's like your surfing," he says after another bite. "Technically very proficient, but lacking personality."

"Personality? Food doesn't have personality."

"Everything has personality," Théo says, taking a sip of water. "Especially food. You've got to learn to stop following so many rules."

"Rules are what sets us apart from animals," I counter, getting irritated again. Hanging out with Théo has been fun, but it's also a lesson in managing frustration. He can get under my skin like no one else, it seems.

"Not everything is black and white, Jay. You can't always follow a recipe."

I don't answer, and opt instead to continue with my meal. It's not that I'm giving up the argument, it's just that Théo is impossible. He'd never concede, even if I was right, and there's just no point to carry on like that. Plus, this food is fucking delicious, if I do say so myself.

* * *

I don't have much time to spend with anyone for the few days following my dinner with Théo. Midterm exams are approaching, and I have a pile of papers to grade and get back to my students. When Friday comes I change as soon as I get home, and head straight to Thomas's with Westley.

Thomas and Théo are both in the living room, laughing over some ridiculous French movie. They move to turn it off when I get there, but I don't want to just barge in and interrupt their night. Plus, after the week I've had, just lying down and doing nothing sounds like heaven. I take the sofa, curling up with my head in Thomas's lap. After a few minutes he starts threading his fingers through my hair, pulling at the curls. I drift, half-asleep, and make a contented noise into his neck.

I'm just perfectly content, snuggling closer with a soft sigh, when Théo turns off the movie abruptly and storms out of the room with no explanation. I jolt, confused by the sudden lack of noise, and hit Thomas's chin with the top of my head.

"What happened?" I ask, my heart racing. "What's going on?"

"Captain Obvious just stormed upstairs," Thomas says, pushing himself up. "Contrary bloody French," he mutters under his breath.

"That's not really fair," I say with a yawn. "Maybe he just really needs a cigarette."

"Oh, so he told you, did he?"

"I kind of found out by accident," I admit. "Still it must be hard, having to go all day at work without one."

"_That's _why you think he quit?" Thomas is looking at me like I just said that I'm asking the Easter Bunny to bring me a pet unicorn next month.

"I don't think anything. He _told _me that's why he quit."

Thomas looks up at the ceiling beseechingly. "I give up," he says. "Jay, Théo just stormed out of here when you nuzzled me like a cat. Why do you think that is?"

"He doesn't like PDA?"

Thomas narrows his eyes and I fight the urge to laugh.

"I don't know," I say. "Maybe he's got feelings for you?"

"For _me?!_" Thomas jumps from his chair and pulls on his hair theatrically. "Are you kidding or just bloody stupid? You do remember the story I told you about how I threw myself at him for a week with no results, right?"

"Yes, and then he paid off your debts and let you move in with him. Then followed you to another continent. You're absolutely right, I must be jumping to conclusions. All friends would do the same thing."

"Jay, you are missing the _point_. Just like Théo misses the way you do that stupid thing with your nose whenever you talk to him." Thomas says, flopping into Théo's abandoned chair. He sighs, and starts talking again, to himself this time. "A bloody attorney and an English PhD student," he mutters. "And both too blind to see what's in front of their damn faces."

I slip out of the living room, leaving him to his muttering, and find Théo in the kitchen with the dogs, drinking a cup of coffee. "Want some?"

I decline and take the chair across from him.

He drums his fingers against the coffee mug. "Did I thank you for dinner the other night?" he finally asks, completely ignoring the fact that he just ran from my presence like a madman.

"Not really," I answer, grinning. "You mostly just insulted it."

"Let me make it up to you. I'll let you make me dinner again."

"Let me? Well, I can't really refuse an offer like that, can I? Tomorrow work for you?"

"Actually, I'm away for the weekend."

"Right," I say. He was here last weekend, I should have remembered. "Going to your appointment." I meet his eyes, expecting him to elaborate, but he just takes another sip of tea.

"How about Monday?"

"Sure," I answer, hiding my disappointment. "Monday sounds great."

* * *

By the time Monday arrives, I'm thankful for Théo's company. Thomas has been acting weird ever since Théo's grand exit during the movie, and he blows me off to go out on a date with a guy from work who, as he's said on multiple occasions, smells like fried food and kisses like an enthusiastic puppy. I end up spending the entire weekend doing work and eating take-out. On Sunday I take Westley for his first run, and we make it about three miles before he steps on a broken beer bottle that some asshole left on the trail, and I spend nearly the entire night at the veterinary hospital waiting for him to get seen to and stitched up.

Théo texts me while I'm at work to ask about the dog, and I tell him to take Thomas's key and go in the apartment to keep him company. When I get back the two of them are hanging out in the kitchen, practicing tricks that don't involve the use of his front paw.

"Hey buddy," I greet, leaning down to scratch behind his ears. He whines and Théo laughs at his expression.

"He's doing much better," he tells me with a smile.

"Good." I straighten up, only to find a mishmash of ingredients that didn't come from my fridge scattered on the counter. "What's all this?"

"Our supper," Théo says, picking the puppy up in his arms. "I went to the store and picked some stuff up, and now I want you to make something. Anything."

"Théo, I can't just make _anything_. I need a plan."

"No you don't." Théo reaches over and grabs a raw green bean, sticking it in his mouth. Westley snaps a piece off for himself, and then spits it on the floor, clearly disgusted. "Just use your imagination," Théo says, before turning around and walking right out the door. I watch him walk down to the beach and deposit Westley gently in the sand.

"Use your imagination," I mutter with a terrible French accent. "English majors."

Cooking without a recipe is _stressful. _I pour ingredients into pots and pans haphazardly, internally freaking the fuck out every time a little bit too much falls in. I also taste constantly, trying to figure out if this is going to taste at all like it's supposed to, and end up burning my lips and my tongue. By the time everything is ready and I call Théo and Westley back into the house, my hair is completely frizzed out from the steam and my t-shirt is drenched with sweat. I strip off the shirt, throwing it out on the bridge to dry before going to get a new one.

"Smells good," Théo says as he comes up the steps.

I pull my new t-shirt down and glare at him as soon as my head pops out through. "I hope it poisons you," I huff, running my fingers through my hair. "Look at what you've done."

Théo reaches out tentatively and touches the curls. "I like it," he says softly. He steps closer and Westley barks loudly, jumping between us.

With a pounding heart I walk back into the kitchen and serve up two huge helpings of the chick-pea concoction I've come up with, while Théo once again makes sure the dog gets his food.

"Here's your food," I say, sliding his plate toward him. "Drowning in personality."

Théo flicks a piece of chickpea at me before settling in. When he finally takes a bite he groans deeply, and I find myself flushing.

"That good?"

"It's delicious," he says, shoveling in another mouthful.

I want to call him a liar, but if the way he scrapes his plate is any indication, then he's telling the truth. We're done within ten minutes, and I get up to scrape the leftovers into Tupperware container and get started on the dishes.

"Wait!" Théo grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. "Just leave them there."

"Théo, I don't want things to get messy."

"Life is messy," Théo presses. "I think sometimes you forget that."

"Or choose to ignore it."

"Or choose to ignore it," he repeats. "Which might actually be worse." He looks out at the beach for a second. "Just come outside with me," he says. "Leave the dishes for forty minutes and talk a walk with me."

He sounds so sincere that I can't help but agree. I know that I'll think of those dirty dishes the whole damn time, but I at least want to make him feel like he's helping.

"All right," I say. He smiles – a small, pleased smile that ends with his tooth caught on his bottom lip – and I run into the counter. My face floods with warmth and I force myself to calm down. This is Théo, after all. Scowly, pretentious Théo.

"Are you coming?" he asks, not noticing that I'm having some sort of internal crisis. I tell him I am and then grab my phone off the island and follow him outside.

We walk along the beach, chatting about nothing in particular, until my house is long out of sight and I realize that I haven't been thinking about the dishes at all. Time with Théo seems to stand still; I never have time to miss Alec, worry about school, or dwell on any of the things that usually bother me. His company, as much as this would have surprised me just a few months ago, is soothing.

"Jay?" Théo's soft voice interrupts me from my reverie, and I look up to find that he's stopped right in front of me. I try to stop in time, but the sand doesn't make for the most graceful maneuvers, and I end up pressed right against his chest.

"Jay," he whispers again, in his throaty accent. "Do you really think that I'm in love with Thomas?"

"I –" _I am not mentally prepared for this question_, I want to say. _Please select another. _"It makes sense." My breath catches as I wait for his answer, and I convince myself it's because I don't want our friendship to become awkward. Absurdly, I think about telling him that Thomas and I still haven't had sex. In fact, we haven't even kissed in over a week.

"You're wrong," he whispers. His breath smells like oranges – he must have eaten something since we left the house – and all I can think of is how I must smell like chickpeas.

"Then why did you storm out of the room the other day?"

"Are you in love with Thomas?" Théo asks, completely ignoring my question.

"What? Thomas? No, absolutely not. I," I hesitate, thinking about what I'm about to say and making sure that I truly believe it. "I am pleased to say, that for the first time in many years, I'm not in love with anyone."

Théo leans in closer, brushing the stray curls out of my face and cupping my cheek. "I think," he says softly, "for the first time in many years, I might _want _to be in love with someone."

He leans in and brushes his lips against mine, and everything disappears. The heat of the sun, the crash of the waves, the sickening feeling of thinking Théo is going to profess his love for Thomas. Nothing registers except the feeling of his lips against mine.

He starts off hesitantly, but when I don't pull away, he deepens the kiss into something hot and desperate. His arms wrap around my waist and he pulls me closely, groaning when our bodies meet. I can't help but groan in return at the friction, and Théo takes the opportunity lick inside my mouth.

I haven't felt a kiss like this – well, maybe ever. The raw need, the overwhelming feeling of completeness, instantly terrifies me. I pull away, and Théo leans in to press a short, sweet kiss to my lips. It's unbelievably tender and I am not at all prepared for it.

When Théo draws back and smiles, I feel a horrible unease settling over my shoulders. I _can't _do this. I can't handle going through all this again. This is how it starts: with breathless kisses and tender touches, but eventually it all goes to shit. Théo and Thomas are my only friends, and I can't fuck that up.

"I should go," I say.

Théo's face falls and for a second I wish I could take the words back. His lips are a little puffy from our enthusiasm, and the urge to lean down and press soft kisses along them is nearly overwhelming. But I _can't. _The very thought is as terrifying as it is tempting.

"I have to clean my kitchen," I explain. "It's just, really messy, and I have to clean it."

Théo doesn't say anything; he just sits there, waiting for an explanation I'm not going to be able to give.

"Just, give me some time to process," I beg, not wanting this to ruin our friendship. "Come over tomorrow?"

"You want me to?"

I lean in and take Théo's face in my hands, trembling a little. I kiss him, very softly before turning away. "I want you to."

I turn around and make the long walk back alone.

* * *

**Woah, this took a long time, so I hope you lovely things enjoyed it! **


	6. Chapter 6

**I wanted to write this as much as you guys want to read it, hence the quick update. Enjoy :)**

* * *

Théo doesn't follow me back up the beach. He doesn't run after me or slink behind me or even walk in the other direction. He just sits in the sand, pulls a book out of his back pocket, and starts reading. I, on the other hand, am nearly shaking with disbelief. Everything that Thomas has been doing for the past week suddenly makes sense. I wonder if Théo even told him about his feelings, or if he'd just picked up on them independently. Regardless, it only solidifies something that I already knew: neither of us will ever deserve a friend like Thomas.

Frazzled and unable to sort through the emotional overload I'm experiencing right now, I decide to take advantage of Thomas's friendship once again, and end up walking up to Théo's house instead of my own. I don't bother knocking – Théo's obviously not home and it's too early for Thomas to have gone out yet – and just run straight up to Thomas's bedroom.

"Oh, fuck," Thomas says as soon as I walk in the door. "Oh bloody buggering fuck."

I don't even answer, just kind of gape at him like a fish from the doorway.

"Tell me you didn't run away," he says. "Please, please tell me you didn't run away."

"What?" I slide down to the floor, my ass braced against the door. "How do you even know what happened?"

"Oh, Jay," Thomas says, "because you're about a subtle as an anvil to the head. And Théo's worse. If there's anything more obvious than a Frenchman in love, than I haven't found it."

"This is not a joke, Thomas." I feel my breath catch in my chest and wonder if this is what Alec felt like when he was having a panic attack. Like the entire ceiling was going to cave in and bury him alive. "I'm kind of freaking out."

Thomas is off the bed and by my side in seconds. "Deep breaths," he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on my back. "You're going to be all right."

When my breathing has evened out and I feel like I can talk again, Thomas shifts so that he's sitting directly across from me. He arranges his long legs into the Lotus position and cradles his face in his hands, looking at me expectantly.

"What?" I feel a little on edge. I'm not really sure if he's going to help me or hurt me. Being best friends with the guy you may or may not have some significant feelings for and whom you may or may not have abandoned on a windy beach suddenly seems like a piss-poor idea. "Seriously, what?"

"You tell me," Thomas says, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

"Tell you what?"

"Why you're here in my room, instead of somewhere else, getting the banging of your life."

"Jesus, Thomas!"

"Jesus, Jay!" he mimics. "I'm serious, why are you here?"

"I don't know." I lean back until my head cracks off the door. "I don't know if this is such a good idea."

"Why not?"

"I told you! I don't. Know."

Thomas scoffs. "You don't know? Jay, you have a five-step plan for making breakfast. You have _four _different final exams written up for your class based on the changing _political atmosphere_.You know, and obviously on some weirdly repressed, subconscious level, you knew that coming here was the only way to get it out. So shoot. Tell me why this is a bad idea."

"Us?" It comes out as more of a question than answer, and since all Thomas does is glare at me, I quickly change the topic. "There are a million things," I spit out. "I'm scared that this will impact our friendship – not just mine and Théo's, but _ours; _I'm scared that I'm not over Alec, and that maybe I'll never be over Alec; I'm scared that the same thing will happen again; and I'm scared that I'll be _bad _at this. There's a reason everything went to shit last time, and I'm pretty sure that reason was me."

Thomas's arms are around me before I get the final words out. "Princess," he says, pushing the hair out of my eyes. "All that shit _is _terrifying, but that doesn't mean that you just run away. That's not like you, to run away from a challenge. I know that Alec messed you up big time, but it's been over a year now, and you're not the kind of guy who can live with just a friendly hand job and a quick snuggle."

"What if I fuck it up, Thomas?"

"What if running away _is _you fucking it up?" He lifts my chin up with the back of his hand and smiles. "Do you like him?"

I think about the way Théo always carries around a battered old paperback in his back pocket. About the way his eyes crinkle when he's surfing and how his accent deepens when he's upset. I think about that kiss, and how it was unlike anything I've ever felt before. "Life is messy sometimes," I say, thinking of the dishes that are in my sink and how they're going to stay there a little bit longer.

"As sloppy as a drunken fuck," Thomas agrees happily. "I assume that means yes?"

"It means yes." I get up from the floor and Thomas rises with me, almost bouncing with unrestrained glee. If I didn't know that he had both our interests at heart, I'd almost be a little insulted. "Thanks, Thomas," I say with my hand on the doorknob.

Thomas leans in and kisses me softly on the cheek. "Anytime, Princess." He reaches back and grabs my ass, winking when I yelp in pain. "For old time's sake."

"You're a dirty pervert, Thomas Werther," I say as I walk out the door.

"Truer words were never spoken." He leans over the rail as I take the stairs two by two. "Speaking of, do you think that as a consolation prize, you could maybe crack the door a smidge when you and Théo are making the ole beast with two backs? It'll help get me through those sleepless nights."

"Not on your life!" I yell as I slam the door shut and head back toward the beach, blood humming a concerto in my veins.

* * *

I run down the beach, not caring that my curls are going to look like a crow's nest by the time I get to Théo or that my t-shirt is soaked through with sweat. A couple of girls wolf-whistle as I pass, but I barely have time to register the compliment. All I can focus on is the tiny black speck in the distance. My lungs are burning and my breaths are coming in short pants, but I don't slow down, not until I'm only a few feet away.

Théo doesn't even look up. I'm not even sure what he's reading – the cover is folded over and held in place by his pinky – but he's completely enthralled. I've never seen anyone who can get lost in a book like he can. His hair is a little messy from the wind and his skinny legs are stretched out in front of him, and I don't know how I've been able to ignore how fucking gorgeous I think he is. I slow down as soon as I can hear the soft rustle of paper as he turns the page. I take a breath, suddenly unsure, and step into his light.

"Jay." He says my name in a reverent hush and lets his book fall into the sand.

"Théo." I drop to my knees in front of him, crawling forward so that I'm situated between his legs.

"What are you doing here?" The words are so soft that they're almost swallowed by the gentle hiss of the waves, but Théo's face is message enough. My gut twists at the fact that I left him out here, no matter for how brief a period.

"I was thinking about getting a second kiss," I say, swallowing thickly. "Perhaps with a different ending this time."

Théo doesn't say anything in reply. He surges forward, dragging me on top of him. When his hands thread in my hair and our bodies press together, there's no time to think of the fact that we're in public, or that we're rolling on the dirty sand, or that my t-shirt is probably sticking to his skin. There's only the electrifying feeling of his lips against mine, and the low groan that escapes when he tugs lightly on my hair. He uses my surprise to his advantage, flipping us over so that I'm the one on the ground and he's on top of me. In typical French fashion, with absolutely no care for public decorum, he kisses me hungrily. His tongue presses against mine gently, and I feel a spark of heat that unravels in my chest and radiates outward like a burst of fireworks. He then moves to my teeth, my lips, until he's messily kissing his way down my throat. I pant as he nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, and he responds by moaning obscenely and following up with a stream of incomprehensible French.

"You can't," I force out as he goes back to my neck. "You can't speak French like that, not out here, on the beach."

"_Pourquoi?" _he murmurs in my ears, grinning as I shiver. He switches back to English. "Does it _distract _you?"

"Come home with me," I groan into his neck, running my hands under his t-shirt. "Please, God, come home with me."

* * *

The trip up the beach feels like an eternity, and I've barely pushed the front door open when Théo slams me into the nearest wall. We pick our way to the bedroom in a flurry of kisses and bites, pieces of clothes falling by the wayside. We fall onto my bed haphazardly, limbs askew and lips reaching for any slice of bare skin. Théo presses me down, running his hands along my sides as I push myself up toward the pillows.

"Can I?" he asks, tugging at my shorts.

I nod quickly, not trusting myself to speak, and he leans down to trace his tongue along the ridges of my stomach. He murmurs something else, too low for me to hear if it's even English or French, but heat still unfurls in my abdomen at the thought. The tracing of his tongue changes to wet, open-mouthed kisses, and I wrap my fists in the blankets, trying hard not to cry out. He slowly makes his way up, kissing from the line of my boxers, past my navel, up my chest, until he finally gets back to my neck. He rolls so that his body is flat against mine, and he holds himself up by his elbows. All it takes is one quick roll of his hips, and I whine in a way that's acutely embarrassing.

Théo smiles, and in complete contrast to the heat of his previous affections, he leans down to kiss me on the nose. "We can stop if you want," he says, settling down on my chest. His hand traces lazily up and down my side. "I don't want to push."

Just the simple touch of his fingers against my skin is driving me wild. There's no way that I'll be satisfied with taking it slowly. I want Théo, with a hard, unyielding force that's fucking terrifying, but I think – I hope – is worth it.

"I want you," I murmur, pulling him up to meet my lips again. "I want you so fucking much."

Apparently that's all the reassurance Théo needs, because he's back to his initial goal in a heartbeat. I barely have time to suck in a breath of air before my boxers are discarded and his mouth is descending around my cock.

Even though there's no one home, I grab one of the pillows and press it over my face. I moan helplessly, unable to deal with the sudden onslaught of sensation. It's been over a year since anyone has done this, and it's all I can do to try to calm down and keep from embarrassing myself like a hormonal teenager. Just when I've reached the brink, when my legs start to shake and I feel like I can't hold out another second, Théo pulls away and licks his way back up my body.

Any previous inhibitions about kissing after blowjobs go out the window. I grab Théo, who is kissing delicately around my neck, trying to gauge what I want, and kiss him as deep and messily as I had on the beach. I grope for the drawer of my bedside table, fumbling through paperclips and pencils until I find the condoms I'm looking for. I toss one on the bed, leaving it up to Théo to put it on whichever of us he prefers, and search out the lube. I've just found the bottle, when I feel the sensation of a condom being unrolled on my hot skin.

"Are you sure?"

Théo nods and pulls back the light blankets that are covering the bed, slipping inside. He sighs – the sheets must be cool on his heated skin – and pulls me down gently.

The kisses change, but are no less intense. They go from frantic and needy to open-mouthed and passionate. When Théo slides his tongue against mine I can feel the sensation everywhere. One kiss ignites my entire body, until I'm so overwhelmed that I'm afraid I won't be able to keep myself up. I run my hands over his body this time, taking in his soft, smooth skin with the same reverence he showed mine. He flushes a little, embarrassed when I kiss my way down his stomach, and attempts to pull the blanket across, but I just lift myself back up to his neck and whisper to him that he's perfect, reveling in the way he shudders at my touch.

At the first press of my fingers Théo's breath catches, and I lean up and try to distract him from the pain. I kiss him – fuck, I could kiss him forever – until he presses forward for more, stroking and stretching as carefully as I can. When I finally press inside, the heat and the pressure and just the _knowledge_ that this is Théo – unpredictable, volatile Théo – who's letting me do this, is unreal.

I move slowly to allow him time to get used to the sensation, but also because this isn't something to be rushed. We'll have time – at least, I hope we'll have time – for fast and sloppy, but right now I just want to hold on to this feeling. To make Théo feel like I do: like nothing else matters but this. Like nothing else matters but _us._

As Théo gets a little more involved, my pace becomes more and more erratic. Théo's soft words and gentle moans transform into the same incoherent French that drove me wild on the beach, and I can't control the way that hearing that small break in his carefully constructed persona makes me feel. The tension builds, and I reach my hand down to stroke him off to the rhythm of our thrusts. When he comes he gasps – it's a small, breathy sound – and I am powerless to it. I follow immediately after, lost in a haze of sensation that clouds my mind and sucks the energy from my body.

I barely have the presence of mind to haul off and dispose of the condom before I tumble into the soft blankets in a tangle of loose limbs. Théo, flushed and adorably loopy, curls into me, pressing his face into the hollow of my neck. I roll onto my back and he drapes a leg across my waist and nuzzles closer.

"La petite mort," he murmurs, startling me a little. I had assumed he'd already fallen asleep.

"Hmm?"

"La petite mort," he repeats. "It means 'the little death'. It's that feeling after sex, where you can't think or move or anything. You can only exist."

"I think I understand what you mean." I laugh softly, running my fingers up the suntanned skin of his back.

He keeps his head tucked against my neck, and I can feel the warm sensation of his breath on my skin. "I used to think that for me, la petite mort only existed at the end of books. In that surreal feeling after you finish something truly life-changing. I didn't think that it was something that could be shared with someone else."

I wrap my arms around his small frame, hugging him tightly. "Until tonight?"

"_Exactement_," he murmurs sleepily, pressing a final soft kiss to my collarbone. "Until tonight."

* * *

For the first time in my professional career, I call in sick to work. I'm sure my students don't mind – I only have two classes a week, and I've convinced a guest speaker to come in for one of them – and I'm so far ahead that it really makes no difference to my workload.

In the morning Théo helps me do the dishes and we make breakfast together. We get distracted somewhere between the making and eating the bacon, and somehow, with his sex-flushed face and soft smile, Théo convinces me to let him eat in bed afterward. On that first day we only leave the house once, to let Westley run around, and spend very little of our house-time outside the bedroom.

We fit together surprisingly well. There's none of the awkwardness I felt when I first tried to sleep with Thomas, and the sex is, well, _hot. _There's really no other way to describe it. When I was with Alec things were nice. Kissing Alec was nice and sleeping with Alec was nice, and sex with Alec was nice. With Théo it's like I've been possessed, like I need to be as close to him as possible. We move from the bed, to the floor, to the shower, and by the end of the day I'm completely spent. Thankfully, we don't run out of things to talk about, and the down time is just as satisfying as the sex.

Things don't get awkward until we finally leave the cover of my house and start spending some time at Théo's. For the first couple of nights Thomas finds ways to make himself scarce. He goes on dates, takes extra shifts at work, and parties with friends, always ducking out of the room when Théo and I enter.

Thankfully, they must have some sort of conversation the week I go back to work, because when I drop over on Monday night, I find the both of them curled up in the living room as if nothing's changed.

The only problem is that Théo won't touch me. He makes some room for me on the sofa, but unlike at my house, he sits up as straight as a board, eyes trained straight ahead. I rest my hand on his leg, and he jumps like a scared animal at the touch. Before I can ask him what the hell is going on, Thomas sighs loudly and gets up from his chair and saunters over.

"You," he says, looking directly at Théo, "are being ridiculous." He grabs our heads, and shoves them together in a pantomime of kissing. "You're making this so fucking awkward. I'm neither an infant nor a prude. You're not going to scar me with a bit of tongue. I mean, I've seen a fair amount of Jay alread–"

He doesn't have time to finish his sentence before Théo quietly gets up from his spot in front of the television and marches straight upstairs. His door slams and Thomas and I wince simultaneously.

"Nicely done, Thomas," I mutter, shoving at his shoulder.

"Oh, fuck," Thomas groans, falling back into his chair. "I wanted to make it _less _awkward, not make him storm away like a disgruntled four year old." He looks up at me, face contrite. "The stuff between us, it was just friend stuff, right? It didn't _mean_ anything. It was a just a bit of fun."

"Yeah, but maybe having sex isn't just a bit of fun to Théo."

"No," Thomas corrects, sitting up a little straighter. "Having sex with _you_ is not just a bit of fun to Théo."

I pull out my phone, trying to shield my face, but Thomas isn't fooled. "Aww, Princess, you're blushing."

"Shut up," I hiss, desperate to change the subject. "Could you try to dial back the flirting at least a little?"

"It's second nature. Théo knows that. Do you think he's just going to forget everything that's happened over the past year? You were my bloody friend first, and I will not let him turn this into some kind of grand drama."

"Think about how he feels for a second. I know having sex is like reading the morning paper for you, but we're not all like that. You're going to have to take it easy on him. You weren't like this with Riley, were you?"

"Obviously I wasn't like this with – " Thomas stops and glares up at me. "Nice try, Princess. You're not finding out about that shitstorm from me. If you really want to know, then go ask your boyfriend."

Boyfriend. The word makes me feel giddy and ridiculous, and I practically float up the stairs with the stupidest smile on my face, because Théo is my _boyfriend. _At least, I think he is.

I don't want to barge in when I get upstairs, so I knock softly on the door.

"No English allowed," Théo spits.

"Now that's not really very specific," I answer. "Are we talking British-English or just English speakers?"

"No annoying lawyers either," Théo huffs, but the harshness has mostly faded.

"Can I please come in?"

He doesn't answer, so I just go in anyway. Théo is sitting at his desk, grading first year essays for his professor with particular vehemence.

I look over his shoulder at the angry scrawls of red pen. "Are you really sure you want to tell that poor freshman that you've seen better writing from your six year old cousin?"

Théo just throws the pen across the room and flops down on the paper. "I know I'm being an idiot," he says. "I just keep thinking about all those times I had to watch you with Thomas. Thomas kissing you and Thomas dragging you up to his bedroom, and it's driving me insane."

"Hey." I take his hand and lead him over to the bed. "You know that all that meant nothing, right? It was really just comforting, being able to be close to someone."

"I know, Thomas has told me like a thousand times. It's just like Gareth all over again."

"Gareth? As in the dude I talked to _once?_ And who you fucked right in front of me?"

Théo at least has the decency to look abashed. "I couldn't help it," he says. "He just kept going on and on at work about how _hot_, and how _brave_ and how _nice_ you were."

"And what, you were jealous that he wasn't fawning over you anymore?"

"No, you idiot. I was jealous that he liked you, and that maybe you might like him back."

"So you fucked him to keep him away from me? You're right." I push him back on the bed. "You are insane."

Théo pulls me down so that we're face to face. "You make me insane," he says, a hint of pink spreading over his cheekbones. "The whole Thomas thing doesn't really bother me that much. It's just, I know that I'll always have to live up to stupid Alec Lightwood, and I figured that Thomas was an easier target. At least a friend-with-benefits I can trump."

I prop myself up by my elbow, so that I can peer down at Théo. Even now, half irritated at his unwarranted possessiveness, I have to force myself not to kiss him. "Now you're being stupid," I say, moving my free hand up to cup his face. "_You're_ my boyfriend. Not Gareth, not Thomas, and not Alec – not anymore. You don't have competition from anybody."

He blushes so prettily that I spend the next hour and a half helping him understand that very concept.

* * *

After our conversation in Théo's bedroom, things with Thomas become a lot less strained. The three of us starting hanging out again, and most of the time Thomas's inappropriate jokes don't bother Théo in the slightest. Classes are going better than ever – aside from the day that Théo thinks it's a fantastic idea to mark me up like a horny teenager and my Rate My Prof page is filed with various permutations of "Professor Grayson got laid" with copious amounts of exclamation marks.

Everything is perfect – _almost. _For twelve days out of fourteen, I'm deliriously happy. Théo makes me laugh, he gets me out of my comfort zone – he even got me to read a work of fiction. We squabble sometimes, but the makeup sex is amazing, and if it's his fault he'll usually make me crepes with ice cream afterward.

It's just that every second weekend he leaves. And every second weekend I have no idea where he's going. And every second Friday, when I walk over to say goodbye, I invariably interrupt a heated discussion between him and Thomas, which immediately falls silent when I enter.

I think about bringing it up. I could ask about Riley, since he obviously has something to do with it. I could ask to tag along – a couple of months is enough time for a weekend getaway without it seeming weird. With finals over and nothing to do but sit around and wait for a call from Emma to tell me the baby's here, I have loads of free time.

Over the last weekend in April I'm stuck at home by myself, with nothing to think about but how much I _hate_ not knowing what Théo's doing. It's not that I think he's cheating on me – he's been nothing but the perfect boyfriend, and plus, I don't think Thomas would let him get away with that – but it just hurts knowing that he still doesn't trust me enough to know. I'm trying to think of a good way to broach the subject when I get a frenzied phone call from my brother-in-law.

"Jay!" he yells when I pick up. "It's a boy! We had a boy!"

I have no idea how to respond. I feel a bit like I'm going to be sick. "She didn't even tell me she was in labor," I manage to choke out. "I am not prepared for this news."

"Me neither, buddy!" Lucas sounds drunk and dazed and like the happiest person in the world. He obviously doesn't know what he's in for.

"Congratulations," I say, because despite my own thoughts about kids, I'm pretty sure that's what he's looking for. "Is Emma in any shape to talk?"

"Not really," he says, apologetic. "But she said that you'll be the first person she calls."

"Thanks for letting me know, Luke. Tell her I love her."

"I will! She'll call you as soon as she's settled on a name."

"I'll expect to hear from her in a month," I joke. "Congratulations, man."

"Thanks, Jay." Lucas sounds like he may cry, and I'm happy that my sister found somebody who loves her – and now their son – so much. "Means a lot."

He disconnects, and I immediately whip out my phone. First I send off a text to Thomas, asking him where the fuck he is, because I need him, pronto, and then I dial Théo. I chew the inside of my cheek as the rings go through. I've never called Théo on one of his away weekends before. I get a few texts and maybe an email, but that's it. He's never told me not to call, but it's a precedent that's been set since we first started dating, and I really don't want to annoy him. Still, this is good news and I'm sure he'll be pissed if I tell Thomas and not him.

Six rings have gone in and I'm about to hang up when finally I hear a frazzled, _Allo_ from the other end.

"Théo, it's me."

"Jay, are you all right?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to tell you the news. Emma had her baby!"

"That's amazing!" Théo sounds genuinely happy, and I let out a little of the breath I was holding. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Boy."

"Name?"

"Unnamed as of yet."

"Ahh, what about his weight? How is he doing? Does he have lots of hair?"

Shit, I didn't ask _any _of that stuff. What if Lucas thinks I'm going to be a bad uncle? Does this _make_ me a bad uncle? Fuck, what if Emma's pissed when she finds out I didn't ask anything about her baby. She'll kill me.

"You didn't ask, did you?" Théo's voice sounds fond, and I want to melt right through the phone.

"I guess I was too caught up in the excitement."

"Yeah?" Théo's voice is a little too casual. "You're excited about having a baby around?"

Oh, crap. This is one of those conversations that needs to happen in person. Unless Théo is just teasing. He's probably just teasing. "I'm excited about having a nephew," I say tentatively. "Someone I can buy presents for and put up pictures of, but not have to actually _parent. _It's like all the perks with none of the messy stuff."

Théo laughs. "You're getting better at the messy stuff."

"Not that good."

Théo laughs again and shifts the phone to his other ear. "I should probably be going," he says. "I'm pretty tired. Plus, you should go pick something out for the baby. A welcome to the world present."

"Uh, yeah. I should. I'll see you on tomorrow, I guess?"

"See you on tomorrow," he says. Then in a hushed voice, "tu me manques."

"Yeah," I reply, somehow even sadder than when I called. "I miss you too."

* * *

Thomas shows up about forty minutes after I tell him what's happened with a large pizza and a twenty-four pack of beer.

"Uncle Jay!" he yells as soon as he barges through the door, clearly already a little tipsy. "I have pizza and beer, and I've been informed by your boyfriend that I am in no way allowed to proposition you for sex." He winks as he cracks open a bottle. "So don't even ask."

"Tempting," I say as he tosses me a bottle of my own. "But I think I'll be able to resist the siren call."

We drink steadily, hoping that the pizza will soak up some of the alcohol, and then being as surprised as newly initiated frat boys when it doesn't. Thomas keeps sneaking Westley pieces of crust under the table, and I keep exclaiming, at random intervals, "My sister has a _baby._"

"Théo told me I need to get a present," I say eventually, when things have calmed down. There are more beer bottles on the table than left in the box, and Thomas keeps insisting that we play caps.

"S'good idea," he slurs as he lurches forward to try to knock off my bottle cap with his own. "Théo's good at that stuff."

"Yeah, he is. Do you want to go help me pick it up tomorrow? I should probably ship it right away, so it's waiting for them at home."

"Why would you ask me?" Thomas wobbles a little. "When you have Théo?"

"I don't know, because you're actually here? Just because Théo is my boyfriend doesn't mean we can't hang out. I don't need him to go everywhere with me."

"Yeah, I know," Thomas says. "You know that's not what I meant. I meant, you know," he rambles on. "I meant the other thing."

I giggle and stretch out my leg to push Thomas over. "You're wasted."

"You're right." He gets up and hobbles over to the sofa. "Think I should take a nap, Princess," he says. He's asleep within minutes, leaving me to tidy up the mess.

* * *

In the morning I decide to go get the present by myself. Thomas is still comatose on the couch when I get up at eleven, so I just deposit Westley by his feet, pour him up a glass of water, and set my GPS to find the nearest baby store.

As soon as I'm there I know I shouldn't have come alone. There are _mountains _of stuff, and I have no idea where or go or what to buy. Obviously my confusion shows, because one of the sale clerks comes up to offer her very enthusiastic advice.

Two hours, a migraine, and two hundred dollars later, I walk out of the store unsure of what I've even purchased. The clerk wrapped the entire thing in periwinkle blue paper, and I pray to God that Emma just thinks it's cute and not some kind of cultural statement about sexism the patriarchal dichotomy of baby colors. I fix the bow as soon as I get to the car, smoothing out the wrinkles that the clerk left, and then head straight to the mail to post it. Then, since I'm out, I decide to run to the grocery store and pick up some food. Théo should be back soon and I want to make him something for dinner. He always looks a little worn out after his weekends away.

When I get back to the house, neither Thomas nor Westley is there. I'm assuming they headed over to Theo's, so I pop one of the croissants out of the package I just bought for Théo at this little French bakery downtown, and mosey next door. The door is unlocked as always, so I just push my way in. There are voices coming from the kitchen, and I tiptoe in quietly, praying that I'm not about to walk in on Thomas stark naked.

Much to my surprise, Thomas is not in the kitchen with his flavor of the day, he's in there with Théo. Who looks _pissed. _

"You need to tell him," Thomas says, throwing bits and pieces of vegetables in a bowl violently. "He deserves to know."

"I know that, Tommy. I just know what's going to happen."

"You're not giving him enough credit. Plus, he's just going to be hurt if he finds out some other way."

Théo's voice is pointed. "Like _what_ other way?"

"I almost told him last night!" Thomas upends the salad bowl by accident, scaring Zola and Westley. "I was fucking drunk and almost told him by accident. And I feel like shit, but maybe it would have been better if I had. Maybe it would have forced you to grow up and tell him the truth."

"I don't want to lose him."

Théo's voice is small and hurt, and I'm torn between the urge to run in and hug him and the urge to run outside and vomit. What the hell is Théo hiding? He knows about Alec and he knows how much I hate lying, so whatever it is it must be awful. My hands start to shake and I brace them against the wall. I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to banish the ice that has settled in my chest. I just need to stay calm, and go in and ask Théo point blank.

Just as I'm about to do that, the front door slams. Théo and Thomas look up, alarmed, and when Théo sees me his face drops. "Jay," he whispers. "I can explain."

Before I can ask what, precisely, he wants to explain, I'm shoved out of the way by a tiny, black-haired girl wearing a pink dress and knee-high boots.

"Theo," she says, not bothering to even attempt to say it right. She leans against the wall across from me, neither apologizing from her rudeness nor acknowledging my existence in any way. "I told you not to leave without seeing me again."

Théo is frozen. He doesn't speak or move. Thomas, however, cuts across the kitchen in a blur of speed, to see for himself who's causing such excitement.

"Riley?" he says, almost as stunned as Théo. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"This isn't your house, Tommy," she bites. "So that's none of your damn business. I'm here to see Théo, and I've brought a visitor."

Théo finally unfreezes. "Riley," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Tell me you didn't. Please, tell me you didn't go there. That you didn't break your court order."

"I thought you'd be happy," she pouts and slumps against the wall. I catch a glimpse of her profile, and notice that her eyes are midnight black. She has no iris – her eye is entirely pupil.

"Are you _high_?" Thomas interjects, looking disgusted.

Riley just glares at him and stumbles over to Théo, her heels making little clicks on the tiled floor. "Come on Theo," she says, pulling on his hand. "Julien's here to see his Daddy."

* * *

**Oh, shit. **


	7. Chapter 7

**IT'S FINALLY HERE! I just wrote this and edited it without taking any breaks, and I'm so tired that I fell asleep a couple times while re-reading :P So, please forgive any silly mistakes. I'll do a second read in the morning, but I won't let that keep me from giving the chapter to all of you! Enjoy...**

* * *

Riley is a girl. Riley is a _girl. _I'm so preoccupied with this fact that the _Daddy_ doesn't register right away. I'm too busy thinking of Thomas and the look of incredulity on his face when I asked him if he'd ever had trouble refraining from flirting with Riley. _Obviously not,_ he'd said. Yeah, obviously not, because Riley is a fucking girl. I feel like such an idiot. The whole room flashes red, and I'm not sure if I'm more upset with Théo for hiding this from me, at Thomas for encouraging me to give Théo a chance when he knew – he fucking _knew_ – that this secret would stand between us, or at myself for ever thinking that I'd have a chance at a happy relationship.

My anger, however, is mitigated when I catch a glimpse of Théo's face as Riley tugs him across the kitchen toward the front door. He looks dazed and frozen with fear, and despite the fact that part of me wants to storm out the door and never come back, there's a larger part that's compelled to see that horrible look banished from Théo's face forever.

I make the decision to stay in an instant, and force myself to shove any personal feelings behind. I quickly scan the kitchen, taking in small details I hadn't noticed before. Thomas looks angrier than I've ever seen him, and he's slicing pieces of red pepper so thinly that I'm afraid he's gong to get his fingers soon; Westley and Zola are huddled in the corner, clearly aware of the negative energy that's immediately invaded the kitchen; and Théo, for the first time since I've met him, looks hopelessly and utterly defeated. He isn't even protesting the fact that he's being dragged bodily across the kitchen by a girl who's half his size.

And Riley. It doesn't take more than a few seconds to size her up. She has a slight sheen of sweat across her brow, dilated pupils, and raised capillaries beneath her nostrils that aren't quite hidden by her expertly applied makeup: definite cocaine addict. I quickly scan for track marks and cracked teeth, and while she has neither, I can't rule out other drugs without further evidence. I take in her Cartier watch, the light, flowing fabric of her dress, and the exact Jimmy Choos I bought Emma for Christmas, and I know that she's wealthy.

I piece everything I know together – Théo's hatred of lawyers, Riley's clear addiction, Thomas's immediate disgust coupled with Théo's intense fear, and the fact that ten times out of ten a wealthy, drug-addicted mother has a better chance of retaining custody of a child than a foreign father who lives with another man – and realize that things could quickly turn to shit. Someone needs to take control of this situation, and it doesn't look like it will be Thomas or Théo, so I don't really have a choice.

"Thomas," I snap, and everyone in the kitchen freezes. "Put down the fucking knife before you chop off your fingers." The knife falls to the counter and Westley and Zola scurry from the room. "And you," I say, pointing at Riley, "stop right there." She just looks at me with glazed eyes, and stumbles back into Théo.

"Theo," she says with a low, eerie laugh. Her voice is high and nasally and though I know that my judgment is significantly clouded by my own hurt and jealousy, I instantly dislike her. "Who is this asshole?"

Théo looks at me, and the pain is visible on his face. He looks so different from the snarky, self-important dick I'm utterly crazy about. He looks broken. "He's," Théo begins, but then hesitates.

Nausea sweeps through my body at that second of hesitation. I know that Théo isn't hesitating because he doesn't want to tell Riley – he's hesitating because he really doesn't know the answer.

"I'm his boyfriend," I say with much more confidence than I actually feel. It's clear that Théo and I have some issues to work through, and I'm not entirely sure that we'll still be together once they've been sorted, but I'm not going to participate in some sort of public dumping.

I look at Théo, who's finally starting to appear less like a wraith and more like a functioning human being. "Is there a child in her car?"

Théo nods, apparently still unable to form words, and I look back at Thomas. "It's probably close to ninety degrees in a car right now. Go get the kid out and bring him in here."

Riley looks like she's about to speak, but Théo hisses something in French and she falls quiet.

"What kind of custody agreement do you two have?" I ask as Thomas hurries out of the house.

"I get visitation every two weeks," Théo says quietly. "Supervised, with Riley's parents. I stay in a hotel near their house."

"And Riley?" I prompt.

"She has unlimited visitation," Théo says. "But she's not allowed there for those weekends, Jay, I swear – "

"I'm not interested in that," I snap, feeling a little satisfaction when Théo visibly cringes. "Is she allowed unsupervised visitation?"

"No."

"Is she allowed to remove the child from his Grandparents' home?"

"No," Théo says, anger finally bubbling up. "She's not." He glares at Riley, who is looking at me like I spit something particularly nasty in her hair.

I ignore the look and focus my attention solely on Théo. "Call the police," I say. "Report what's happened and tell them to come here right away. Then, as soon as you hang up, call Riley's parents and tell them what's happened."

Théo, who will _never_ take orders from anyone, just whips out his phone and starts dialing. Riley – with rapidly constricting pupils and hands that are starting to twitch – screeches and claws at Théo's face in an attempt to wrest his phone out of his grasp. "Don't you call the fucking cops!" she yells, her voice going from unpleasantly high to banshee-like. "I'll call the lawyers! I'll tell them what you've been getting up to with your uppity fucking _boyfriend_," – she sneers the word – "and make sure that you don't see Julien ever again."

Théo actually hesitates and I walk forward to put myself between the two of them. "I _am _a lawyer," I say. I refrain from adding on _you crazy bitch_ because I don't want to give her any fodder to feed to police who will more than likely come in with preconceived notions. I turn to Théo. "And I'm assuming that your sexual orientation was known to the judge when he made the ruling?"

I reach out and place my hand on Théo's cheek. He recoils as if my touch is painful, but I push away the influx of feelings. Feeling will only interfere with what we have to get done. Feelings will have to wait until later. "They can't do anything to you," I insist, shoving my hand in my pocket so that I don't reach out again. "Just make the call. Preferably somewhere quiet."

As Théo rushes out of the room, Riley makes a move to follow.

"You can follow him in there," I say, steeling my voice so that it echoes through the spacious kitchen. "But if you touch him again or interfere, I'll slap so many charges on you that _you'll _be the one to never see your son again."

Perhaps because she's a little more lucid, Riley takes my advice and stays put. Well, she stays in the kitchen at least. She obviously knows her way around, as she quickly puts together a glass of milk and grabs a tray of cookies from the cupboard. She whips out a tiny mirror from within the giant purse she's flung on the table, and reapplies some of her smudged makeup. She also draws an elegant shawl from the purse and throws it over her shoulders. With her newly-applied lipstick, classy outfit, and snack, she looks as harmless as kitten and twice as cute. I grit my teeth and try not to simmer at her tiny smirk. This girl may be a psychopathic drug addict, but she's a _smart_ psychopathic drug addict.

Thankfully, I'm saved from having to decide what to say or do by the arrival of Thomas and the baby.

"Had the decency to at least crack the windows, eh Riley?" Thomas sneers when he enters the kitchen. "At least your son ranks highly enough to get the treatment you'd give a dog."

Riley doesn't even look up to glance at her son and make sure he's all right. "Shut up, Tommy," she snaps. "I don't need parenting advice from a high-school drop-out who's too pathetic to move out of his best friend's house." She looks up and grins, and one of her top teeth pokes out over her lip. I'm sure it's something that Théo found endearing at some point, but I think it just makes her look like a hungry hyena.

Thomas doesn't seem fazed in the least, and I get the feeling that the schism between them far precedes any legal trouble to do with Julien. "And I don't register insults from coke-heads whose makeup looks like it was inspired by Pennywise the Clown."

Riley just rolls her eyes, but I notice that she surreptitiously checks her makeup using the back of her phone.

"Where's Théo?" Thomas takes a seat across from Riley, but his attention is focused entirely on me.

"Right here."

Théo steps into the kitchen, tucking his phone into his pocket. He takes a seat in one of the remaining chairs. He's facing me, but I can't see that his entire body is gravitating toward the small bundle in Thomas's arms. The kid's face is hidden, but the pudgy limbs and soft, curly hair doesn't look much different from other babies I've seen. Thomas wordlessly hands the baby over, and unfortunately the jostling wakes him up. I cringe, ready for a wail, but he remains quiet. He blinks open his huge brown eyes, and actually _scowls_ at Thomas. I try to stop myself from reacting, but a small gasp makes its way out. I can't help it; the gesture is just so overwhelmingly _Th__é__o_.

"He looks like you," I say to Théo by way of explanation. He doesn't answer, just hugs the boy tightly to his chest. "What did the cops say?"

"They're calling Riley's parents," Théo says bitterly. "Unless they report that Riley's kidnapped Julien, then there's nothing they can do. I can file a report to our case manager, and he'll let me know about the repercussions of what Riley's done."

Riley, in a flurry of texting, disappears from the kitchen for a moment, with Thomas glaring after her as if he'd like nothing more than to take her out back and drown her in the ocean. "And the drugs?" he asks, lip curling in disgust.

"Said he couldn't run a drug test for every jealous ex-boyfriend who called the station." Théo sighs, but doesn't move. Instead, he remains unnaturally still, running his fingers gently through his son's curls.

Now that the initial work is done, I'm starting to feel a little drained. Drained and out of place, with this kitchen full of people with a complicated history that has nothing to do with me. What's more, watching Théo run his hands through Julien's hair is sparking feelings in me I would rather keep dampened.

"Daddy is on his way to pick up Julien," Riley says breezily, storming back into the kitchen and interrupting my thoughts. If not for the fact that I witnessed it myself, I would never believe that she was the same girl who barged in here less than forty minutes ago. She struts past me without a second glance, and leans over Théo to brush her lips against her son's hair. Julien stirs a little in Théo's arms, but he doesn't wake. "Bye Théo," she says, leaning down to press her lips to the corner of Théo's mouth. She raises her eyes and looks directly at me, grinning her feral-hyena grin. Trapped by his sleeping son, Théo has no choice but to let the kiss happen. He glares at her furiously as she walks away, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Tired, hurt, and seething with the sort of jealousy I'd never believed myself capable of feeling, I decide that it's time for me to go as well. "I'm just going to leave," I announce as soon as I hear Riley's car pull out of the driveway.

Théo, torn between wanting to stop me and not wanting to wake Julien, makes a semi-jerk toward my side of the kitchen. "Jay, please."

"Just come over when Riley's parents leave." I call Westley and scoop him up into my arms when he comes barreling down the hall, tongue hanging out and drool flying everywhere. I head for the door, pausing to look at Théo one last time. "We'll talk then."

* * *

It takes a few hours for Théo to arrive. When he does, I'm elbow-deep in soapy water and all the appliances in my kitchen have been moved away from the walls so that I can scrub behind them. I don't even realize that Théo's in the house until I hear a soft, "Oh, Jay," from behind me.

I throw my full-length rubber gloves in the soapy water along with the washcloth and walk with Théo to the living room. He takes a seat on the sofa, perhaps hoping that I will be forced to sit beside him, but I take the chair opposite instead.

Théo starts to speak, and I know he's going to apologize, so I interrupt.

"If you apologize I'm going to lose my mind," I say. My hands are shaking with the effort of holding back, and the inside of my mouth feels raw from the constant chewing. "I can't deal with an apology right now, and frankly, I'm not in a very forgiving mood."

"So then why did you ask me to come over?" Théo's voice lacks any of its usual fire, and with his poor posture and limp hair, he looks small and afraid. He looks up and my stomach twists when I see that his eyes are bright. "Did you ask me here to break things off?"

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "How about you just tell me the whole story and we'll go from there?"

He does. It takes the better part of an hour, and Théo starts with when he first met Riley and ends with the court's final decision. Riley, who had continued to get high throughout her entire pregnancy, and was the reason that Julien was born narcotic-dependent and had to spend weeks in the Neonatal ICU, was still granted more parental visitation rights than Théo all because of his sexual orientation. Théo is angry as he talks, and I'm mostly disgusting that things can be so backward. Whatever my feelings toward Théo at the moment, it's clear that he adores his son. He deserves better than the shoddy justice system has given him. The entire situation makes me sick and angry, and I want nothing more than to move over to the sofa and comfort Théo for everything that's happened to him.

That's why I picked the chair.

Instead, I just ask, as calmly as I can, "Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

"That I had a kid?" Théo laughs and the sound is low and bitter, and close to the way he used to sound before we started dating. "Because_ that_ would have gone over well."

Anger pricks at my calm, and I have to force myself to keep from yelling. "You don't know what I would have done."

Théo's face crumples and he shifts a little closer. "You're right," he says. "I didn't know. But I did know that you could barely handle a couple of unwashed dishes, and that you thought that dogs were as much responsibility as you wanted. I knew that you were barely ready for what we did have, and that pushing anything else on you seemed impossible."

"So you just wait for me to find out like this? Do you have any idea how hurt I was when she showed up? I didn't even know that you were bisexual, for Christ's sake. How do you date someone for _months_ and not even know their fucking sexual orientation?"

"I'm sorry, Jay."

"I told you not to fucking apologize! I don't want your apology. I want a boyfriend who's honest with me. Who doesn't string me along for months while he runs off to play house with his ex-girlfriend."

"It's not like that!" Théo gets up from the sofa and walks over to my chair, perching on the side. "I swear it wasn't like that."

"I don't care," I spit, getting up myself. "It still fucking feels like that."

"Jay, I –"

Suddenly, I don't want to hear anything else Théo has to say. Whether it's another apology or another excuse, I don't want to hear it. "Just leave, Théo," I say, walking back to the kitchen.

"Jay, please."

"Just leave!" I shout. "I need some time, and anything you say right now is only going to make things worse." I bend over and pull my rubber gloves back on, wincing at the water that squelches between my fingers. "And tell Thomas not to bother coming over here either," I say as Théo approaches the door. "I don't want to see either of you for a few days."

Théo doesn't say anything. He shuts the door quietly behind him when he leaves.

I attack the dirty baseboards with fury. I wish I could call Emma, but she's still not out of the hospital, and this is the last thing she needs to deal with. Thomas is out, because I'm just as upset with him as I am with Théo. That leaves…no one. There's no one I can call, no one I can turn to for advice. My mother would have a field day with this. She'd have me on a plane to New York with the intention of "casually running into" Alec within hours.

Thinking about Alec makes me even more upset. My arm burns as I scrape at the layer of dirt that has been camping out behind my stove, and my heart burns at the thought of Alec, safe and happy with Magnus fucking Bane in New York. Go figure, he takes off with a stripper and they live happily ever after, and I get stuck with a contrary Frenchman who has a secret love child.

I scrub harder, losing myself in the burn of my tired muscles, and try to block out the fact that I _knew _this would happen. I knew that this couldn't last. I knew that Théo would end up breaking my heart.

* * *

I decide to take a trip out of town. First I think about heading back to Vegas to visit Emma and the baby, but I know that she needs some time to adjust before she's bombarded with visitors. Plus, I want to go somewhere new, somewhere that isn't bogged down by the memory of Alec or anyone else.

I settled on San Francisco. I've never been there before, and the northern climate will provide some relief from the unrelenting heat of the south. I fly up and rent a car, and spend a couple of days exploring the sites. I eat at nice restaurants and shop at nice stores and even pick out a few more gifts for Emma and the baby. I have them wrapped and shipped directly to her door.

On the third day, the reality of why I'm taking this vacation starts to creep back in, and I decide to go out. I mean, it's almost criminal to go to San Francisco as a gay man and _not _go out. I find a quiet, classy bar, and set about drowning myself in whisky. I get a few looks – which I'm not going to lie, makes me feel a little bit better about the sad state of my life – but it's not until I've been there a few hours that someone is brave enough to actually approach me.

He's tall, blonde, gorgeous, and – best of all – looks _nothing_ like Théo or Alec. He flirts confidently and talks about his job as a writer for an online publication, and I try to convince myself that I could walk out of this bar with him. That I can be that kind of guy. The kind who doesn't need attachments or meaningful sex. The kind that lets someone worship his body and doesn't think about the repercussions. The kind who rips condoms open with his teeth and licks his way into another guy's ass. Maybe I'd let this guy eat me out. I could be loud and dirty and pornographic. I could do everything that I've ever been afraid to do. Everything that's seemed impossible or _wrong. _I could be like Alec or Théo and carry this secret along with me, until the opportune moment that I could use it to ruin someone's happiness completely.

Except when the guy turns to me with a smooth _you want to get out of here? _I just shake my head. "I've got a boyfriend," I reply, finally getting up from the bar to make my way back to the hotel. "Thanks for the offer."

* * *

Not three hours have passed since I pulled into my driveway when I get a text from Thomas asking to come over. Since I can't really put off seeing him forever and he's promised that Théo is still at work, I decide that it's best to just go. If I don't, I know he'll just be over pounding on the door in minutes. I don't have to pick Westley up from doggy day care for a few hours, and I figure that's enough time to work through this mess with Thomas.

When I push open the door and walk to the living room, I don't find Thomas, but Théo, who is sitting in his chair, smoking a cigarette. There's an ashtray full of butts sitting on the table next to him, and the pack is open so that he can easily grab another once he's finished.

Enraged, both at Thomas's deception and Théo's backslide, I stride right over to him and pluck the cigarette from his mouth and throw into the ashtray.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I demand, waiting for Théo to get over his shock and answer.

"Me? What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Stopping you from getting lung cancer."

Théo grabs the packet of cigarettes and taps a single smoke into the palm of his hand. I grab it and fling it across the room. The box follows quickly behind.

"Jesus, Jay!" Théo slumps back into his chair, signature scowl at the ready. "What are you doing here?"

"Thomas told me you were gone."

Théo's expression darkens. "_Thomas_ told you," he says. "Well, Thomas is gone out to the beach, and you're welcome to go join him if that's what you want."

"What I want," I reply, taking the smelly ashtray and moving it to the opposite side of the room, "is for you to be around in sixty years."

"Why?" Théo asks, his anger twisting into melancholy. "It's not like you're going to be around."

I don't answer and Théo laughs. "Jay, with nothing to say?"

"I have a lot of things to say," I reply. "Just none that end with either of us very happy."

"Do I look particularly happy to you right now?"

Again, I have no need to answer.

"I don't know why Thomas even bothered. It's not like you're going to forgive me – you're too held up with everything that shit Alec Lightwood did to ever give another guy a fair chance."

"Fuck you," I hiss. "You do _not _get to turn this around on me. You kept a huge part of your life hidden from me, and just expect me to be okay with it? You have a fucking _son_ Théo. A child! You kept that from me for months, and now you're going to act like I'm the bad guy? Like this is all my fault?"

"Did you even stop to consider that this isn't anyone's fault?" Théo gets up so that we're face to face. "I kept Julien from you because I knew that you weren't ready. I knew that it was the quickest way to lose you and that was the last thing that I wanted."

"Oh, I get it. It was _for my own god. _Well then, I guess all is forgiven. If you were just sneaking around living this double life behind my back for my own good, I guess we can just get back to our regularly scheduled relationship."

"God, you can be such a selfish _asshole._"

Théo brushes past me to fetch his cigarettes, but I grab his arm. My pulses races at finally touching the smooth skin that overlies his wrist, but I push the feeling away.

"And you can be such a self-righteous prick."

Théo yanks his arm back and shoves me backward. "Fuck you, Jay."

I pull him forward as my head connects with the wall and he slams into my chest. His breath comes out in a short gasp, cutting off his speech. "Fuck you," I reply, close enough to feel his racing heart.

"Fuck me," he all but snarls, tearing so hard at my t-shirt that I'm sure he's going to rip it off. "Fuck me, you self-absorbed piece of shit."

I rush forward and capture his mouth in mine, ensuring that he can't speak another word. We scramble at each other's clothes; pieces come off in a flurry of movement. When my shirt gets tossed across the room, Théo rakes his nails down my back, shivering as I hiss in pain. He mumbles an insult under his breath, but it disappears when I hoist him up by the legs and slam him against the wall. He wraps his legs around me, unable to do anything but whimper as I bite across his neck, taking none of my usual care. I leave red marks across his throat and bite into his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. He just moans and digs his nails in deeper, thrusting up against my stomach in a desperate bid for friction.

Nearly insane with the small whimpering noises Théo is making, I lift him away from the wall and throw him to the floor. He hits the ground with a thud and a curse, but before I can hear another colorful insult about my own self-absorption, I have his pants around his ankles and his cock in my mouth. Any protests are lost and Théo wraps his fingers in my hair, tugging harder than he ever has before. I set a relentless pace, moaning whenever Théo's tugs become just little too much, and swallowing everything when he finally finishes.

I barely have time to collect my thoughts before Théo tugs me to the sofa and grabs a bottle of lube and a condom from within the coffee table. I want to ask what the fuck it's doing there, but before I can, Théo has himself slicked up and is settling down on my cock. I fall back as he rides me, lost in the warmth and the heat and empty of anything but an all-encompassing _want. _The feeling builds, quick and hot, and spreads from my stomach to my entire body, until eventually Théo's pace becomes almost exquisitely painful. He leans in as he realizes how close I am, and sinks his teeth into the junction of my neck and shoulder. I yelp and then collapse, my orgasm blocking out any thoughts that may have been plaguing me when I first arrived.

For the briefest of seconds I forget that Théo and I are fighting at all, and I draw him into my chest, kissing the sweat from his cheek.

He tenses, and all the harsh words come flooding back, completely ruining my post-coital bliss. "Please don't pull away," he whispers. He wriggles up so that we're face to face. "Just give me five minutes to pretend I haven't fucked everything up, please."

Since pulling away seems like the most acute form of torture imaginable, I pull Théo close and trace my fingers along his back, enjoying the way he shivers with pleasure.

He presses closer, and runs his lips against my collarbone as I continue my ministrations. His mouth is warm and wet, and the light pressure ignites a disproportionate heat in my stomach. Truthfully, my heart aches at the thought of leaving; I want to just stay here, like this, for the rest of the day. For the rest of my life. But that's impossible. I don't know if I'll be able to forget what happened. And I don't even know if I'm capable of forgiveness anymore.

"Jay, I need to tell you something." Théo moves up again, resting his head against my arm and looking steadily at me. He moves in and presses his lips gently against mine – a stark contrast to the rough sex we just finished. "I love you," he whispers softly when he pulls away.

"Don't," he adds as soon as I start to move. "This has nothing to do with what happened with Riley. This has nothing to do with our fight or the fact that you're not sure if we're even a couple anymore." He smiles sadly, and I know that pulling away from him is going to kill me. "Not everything is a negotiation. You don't owe me anything and I don't expect this to change your mind. I just wanted you to know, in case I never get the chance to tell you. I love you, Jay." He kisses me a second time, then a third. Each one feels like a story I don't know how to interpret. They feel like a promise I'll never be able to keep. "Je t'aime, mon amour," Théo murmurs lowly. "Je t'aime tellement."

When I don't answer Théo starts to pull away. Before he can, I wrap my arms around him tightly. "Do you want to get your son back?" I ask.

Théo blinks as if he hasn't heard the question correctly. "I – of course I do."

"I have a colleague – someone who graduated from Harvard the year before I did. He specializes in cases like yours, and I think I could call in a favor and get him to come out from New York."

"You'd do that?" Théo asks quietly. "For me?"

_I'd do anything for you, _I want to say. Instead, I just pull away and begin the long process of blocking off my heart. "I didn't sign up for a family, Théo. You were right when you said that knowing about Julien would overwhelm me. That's not what I want. But if it's what you want, then I'll help you. Even if it means the end of us, I'll help you get your son back."

* * *

**I'm off to sleep. Hopefully to wake up with lovely messages from lovely readers 3 love you all! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the wait, my lovlies. Sorry for the wait and sorry for the pain. **

* * *

I leave the next day for New York City to meet with Carson, after a quick phone call to make sure that this is what Théo wants. When he answers the phone his voice is sleep-stupid and scratchy from the previous night's cigarettes and the need to crawl in bed with him is so strong that I actually feel dizzy. I can smell his shampoo and the Listerine strips he keeps on his bedside table for the morning and I can feel the sharp scratch of his stubble against my cheeks and it's absolutely overwhelming. For the millionth time I wish I could go back to sleep and wake up in a world where there's no Riley and no secret child, and though I know Théo would probably hate me for thinking such a thing, I know I've always been a selfish bastard.

I call Carson's secretary on my way to the airport and leave my name. By the time I'm in the terminal she's called me back with an appointment for the following day. I can only pray that he doesn't have anything huge coming up. Unfortunately, just _being_ a lawyer who advocates for gay rights makes you a valuable commodity; being the _best_ means that you're nearly impossible to hire. As soul heir to his grandmother's fortune Théo could easily pay quadruple whatever anyone else could offer, but unfortunately for us Carson had always been fueled by a sense of righteous purpose rather than a lust for money. In other time I would view that as a quality to be admired, but now it's mostly getting in my way.

I spend most of the flight on edge, and snap a cute flight attendant when he keeps coming back to offer me complimentary snacks. I find his number written on the inside of a napkin and earn a dark glare when I tear it in half as he makes his twenty-fifth trip down the aisle. The entire ordeal puts me in a foul mood, and I'm so flustered that I forget my mother ordered me a car and leave the airport in a taxi.

Thankfully – but not surprisingly – my mother isn't home when I get there, so I have time to call the airport and tell the driver to head home. Her fridge is well stocked, so I grab a beer and some leftover pizza from Louis' down the street and take a seat at her massive table to eat. I look around the room for some sign of what my mother has been up to, but as usual the place is immaculate. There are a couple of new paintings adorning the walls – old ones put in storage until they can be auctioned off for charity, no doubt – but there are no scribbled post-its or new photographs to give me any indication that my mother has been existing outside her office.

I slide off my chair and flip over the island like I used to as a teenager, skidding to a halt in front of the spare drawer to paw around for a bottle opener I can use for my beer. There are envelopes and electricity bills and spare bits of change rattling around in the drawer, and once I lift them out so that I can get at the cutlery underneath, a glossy photograph falls to the floor. The paper is thick and heavy, and there's a small message written underneath.

It's a wedding photo.

A wedding photo of Alec and Magnus.

Alec, as always, looks beautiful. His hair (obviously done by someone else) looks lush and effortless and his blue eyes are vibrant and happy. Magnus, with his honey-colored skin and flawless eye makeup is perhaps even more attractive, and is looking at Alec as if he still can't quite believe that he's real.

As much as I loved him, and as devastated as I was when he left, I don't know that I ever looked at Alec like that.

I wait for the flood of emotion – for that inevitable punch in the gut at seeing the man I'd been set to marry standing next to someone else – but it doesn't come. Instead, my eyes well up as I think of Chateau d'Yquem – a place I've never even visited, but googled extensively when Théo was at work and I was sure he'd never catch me – and of how Théo's throaty accent would sound as he stumbled through the same words that have been said by millions of men before him. I look at the love on Magnus's and Alec's faces, and I break down not because I want to replace Alec's husband, but because all I want is to spend the rest of my life looking at Théo the way he looks at Alec.

I hear the click of a key and the turning of the lock and just manage to shove the picture and pile of mail back in the drawer before my mother steps through the door.

"James," she says warmly as she places her coat and scarf on the hook next to the door. She walks toward me and wraps me in a hug.

Though we haven't spoken much over the past year, I admit that part of me wants to just break down on my mother's shoulder. Instead I just fan my hands across her back, feeling the points at which her bones protrude from the thin fabric of her shirt.

"You're much too thin," I say, drawing back to look at her properly. The last year has certainly taken its toll; though she looks as neat and put together as usual, her hair is a shade too bright, meaning she's taken to dyeing it, and there are spidery wrinkles radiating from the corners of her eyes and mouth. She _does_ look too thin, and completely worn out.

"You look marvelous," she says, brushing away the comment as she does everything she doesn't want to talk about. "The California coast is agreeing with you, I see." She pushes my curls back from my forehead and holds my chin in her hand, and I feel as if she's reading my mind.

"But something's wrong," she proclaims, her eyes narrowing. It's not a question – my mother never uses questions when she knows she's right. She guides me over to the luxurious sofa she's recently added to the living room, and settles closely beside me.

"It's the new partner, isn't it?" She raises an eyebrow and I fight the urge to tell her for the tenth time how much I hate the word _partner. _We exist in the legal world and _partners _are the people you work with, not the people with whom you spend your life. My mother, however, turns up her nose at the word boyfriend. She thinks it's inferior and borderline pejorative, belittling and minimizing the connection two men can share. I dearly want to tell her that she can chime in the moment she actually transforms into a gay man, but I know she's only trying to help. She's always fought for me, even when it meant alienating voters, and I know I have to love and appreciate all the facets of her personality.

"Emma," I mutter darkly as I think of the best way to present what's happening with Théo. Lying is obviously not an option, but I don't even consider evasion, which has worked wonders in the past. Unfortunately, when my mother wants to know something, she will get her answers. I figure being upfront will be the least painful course of action.

"Yes, your sister did tell me a little about your _Th__é__o_. French, James?" She says _French_ the same way some people would say _flesh eating fungus_. She continues before I can call her out on her snobbery. "Though your sister did assure me that he came from a good family, that he grew up on a vineyard."

"He grew up on a farm actually," I correct. "He had a pet goat that he used to feed from a bottle in the kitchen."

"Really, James," my mother scolds. "Do be serious. It's hard enough to adjust to all this French frippery without you making off-color jokes."

I don't bother to tell her that the story is true – and frankly, fucking adorable – because I'm honestly afraid that she'll have an aneurysm. "So you've finally given up on Alec, then?"

A shadow crosses my mother's face, and I can tell that she's debating telling me about the wedding. She doesn't mention it, merely rearranges her face into a hard mask that is a hundred times more familiar to me than her smile. "I'll admit that at first I didn't believe that Alexander was capable of such duplicity, but I've been wrong before. Besides – " she takes her hand and places it over my own," – I find it quite easy to give up on anybody who doesn't realize your worth, darling."

My throat tightens traitorously, but before the moment can become overly sentimental, my mother dives right back into her line of questioning. "So what's happened then? I've been told you have a meeting with Carson Sutherland tomorrow – has someone been giving the two of you trouble?"

I don't know if it's my amazement at the fact that my mother knows about a meeting that was scheduled mere _hours_ ago, or the involuntary squeeze of my heart when she practically growls at the idea of someone causing trouble for me, but I spill the entire story. I tell her everything, from Théo's deception, to Riley's grand entrance, to the plan I have for the meeting with Carson tomorrow. After I've finished she sits there for a few minutes, saying nothing, and I feel a chill as the nervous sweat that lines the back of my shirt starts to cool.

"You're doing the right thing, of course," she finally says, her voice cool and clipped.

"Which thing?"

"Breaking things off, of course." She stares at me, unblinking, and then shifts slightly. "This Riley woman," she sniffs. "If you stay with your Théo she will become a permanent part of your life. Even if you disregard the lying and sneaking around or the fact that you've never been interested in children, the truth remains that you will never be able to escape this woman. She'll always be there, hovering at the edge of your life like an insect that refuses to die."

"You didn't want kids," I say morosely, ignoring her comment about Riley. "And you changed your mind."

"I did," she says, nodding. "I struggled through two horrible pregnancies and what seemed like endless labor to bring two beautiful, brilliant children into the world, and I wouldn't trade that for anything. That experience made me into a completely different person –"

"And, what, you think that because I'm not Julien's biological parent that I can never love him? That Théo and I could never make it work?"

"Oh, James." My mother reaches out and rests her hand against my cheek. "I'm sure that you could, but that's not my point." She draws away and settles her hands into her lap. "I loved your father so much when we were married. I had the perfect job, the perfect apartment, and finally, the perfect husband. It seemed like I had the perfect life. Then, after Emma was born, I realized that I had been young and utterly foolish. When you were born I found it laughable that I thought I had loved your father back then. Once I saw what we were capable of _together_, of what we had _made together_, that old love seemed like nothing more than a schoolyard dalliance. Having a child together binds two people to one another, creates a bond that can never be broken. No matter how much you love this Théo, or how much you wish things were different, the fact remains that he will always be connected to his son's mother."

"She's a drug addict, Mother! She's done nothing but make Théo miserable and make Julien's life harder. She's not even allowed to be alone with her own son, for Christ's sake. No offence, but I don't really think that your two situations are comparable."

"And what if she changes?" My mother's voice hardens, and I can _feel _the strength of her argument, like a wind that sweeps over the room. "What happens if she loses this case that you're mounting, and that's the catalyst she needs to turn her life around? What if she shows up in three months, or six, or even a year, clean and reformed and ready to start over? What do you think Théo will want for his son? What do you think will be easiest for a young boy: living happily and peacefully with his parents or moving between houses every second weekend and being teased by the kids at school about his two fathers? If Théo has to make that choice, do you think he'll be thinking of you or his son?" She puts her hands on my shoulders, drawing me a little closer. "I would give anything to make the world a different place for you, James. I will fight until my last breath to make it a more accepting place for you to live. I will do everything I can to make your life better, because that's what parents do – they put their children first. They always put their children first."

* * *

I don't get a whole lot of sleep after the conversation with my mother, and what sleep I do manage to get is plagued by dreams of Riley and Théo reuniting while I watch from across the beach. It takes two cups of coffee, each with a couple of extra shots of espresso, to get me ready for the meeting. Luckily, Carson's ten o'clock runs late, and I have some time to come down from my jittery coffee-high and appear somewhat like a functioning human being when his secretary ushers me toward his office.

The room is warm and inviting and completely unlike the office of any of my colleagues. There are pictures of his wife and twin boys arranged neatly along his desk, and a graduation picture of him with his moms right beside his diploma. The view from his window is spectacular, and the room is bright and inviting.

None of this makes me feel any better.

In fact, I think the entire problem is that I'm not sure which will make me feel worse: being told that Carson is too busy to take on this case and having to face the look of disappointment of Théo's face when I break the news or being told that Carson would be happy to help and knowing that Théo could have full custody of his son in a couple of months. I wonder if he really knew what kind of person I was, would Théo take back the words he whispered into my lips the night before I left Las Angeles? Probably.

The sound of a door opening pulls me from my thoughts, and Carson's face lights up when I meet his eyes. "Jay," he says in greeting, forgoing a handshake to pull me into a hug. "It's been a long time."

"A few years," I agree. I've only seen him once or twice after graduation, at various fundraisers, but I know he keeps in touch with my mother. People with the same cause tend to stick together, especially in the world of Law.

"My secretary said you had something important to discuss," he says, gesturing for me to take a seat across from him. He pulls out an Iron Man writing pad and looks up at me, vaguely apologetic. "The boys insisted that it would help me win my cases."

_That's ridiculous_, I want to say. Instead, I just smile and wonder how the hell people can change so much over such a short period of time. "I have a friend in California who needs help," I say, my tongue tripping over the word _friend. _As if my own body is rebelling against the classification of Théo as anything less than what he is: the most important person in my life.

Carson uncaps his pen – Captain America, this time – and presses the tip to his writing pad. "What kind of problem are we talking about?"

Now that the moment is here, I don't even hesitate. I just think of Théo's arms, wrapped lovingly around his son as he sat at his kitchen table, of the look of fear in his eyes when Riley stumbled into his house, stoned out of her mind, and of the way he told me he loved me, softly and sweetly, wanting nothing in return. I know that I don't deserve that love, and I'm not even sure that if all this hadn't happened I'd be even _capable _of reciprocating those kinds of feelings, but I know that I could never betray Théo like that. I could never keep him from the one thing he wants more than anything else. So I start from the beginning, and I tell Carson everything.

The talk is a lot more technical than the one I had with my mother. Carson wants to know Judges names, court dates, and specifics about the night Riley burst onto the scene. Luckily, Théo, in all his Lit-nerd glory, kept extensive records of all court proceedings, and I have a neat document to hand over to Carson. The meeting lasts long into the day, and by the time we break for lunch I know Carson is going to take the case. He glances occasionally at the picture of his twins, and I find myself grateful to the little buggers, even if they've completely annihilated their father's sense of style.

I stick around for a few days so that I can work out a rudimentary schedule with Carson. He's anxious to get things started, so he makes plans to come to California with his whole family as soon as he sorts out any licensure issues. His wife, Lila, who's a lovely woman and (from what I can tell from a single dinner at her home) apparently endowed with super-powers, can think of nothing more exciting than moving across the country with two toddlers for a few months.

I call Théo and tell him the news as soon as Carson clears the move with Lila. I can tell he's excited, but holding back because he's talking to me. This small disconnect hurts more than I expected, so I quickly make an excuse to hang up. I spend the rest of the night mulling over his quiet _merci, Jay _and wishing that nothing had changed.

* * *

This time when I stumble through the door at five o'clock, there's no Théo to greet me. I even make a little extra noise as I stumble through the brush and slam my door shut, but there isn't a peep from the house next door. Tired, disappointed, and angry with myself for even hoping he'd be here, I fall into bed completely dressed.

The room is flooded with light when I hear the light tapping of someone's knuckles against my bedroom door.

"Théo?" I call, still hazy with sleep and obviously incoherent enough to hold out hope.

"Not quite."

I rise, wiping my eyes slowly, and see Thomas leaning against the doorframe. He looks like hell, with dark circles under his eyes and his clothes in rumpled disarray.

"Can I come in?" His voice is small and low, and completely incongruous with the friend I've come to rely on so heavily over the past year. I feel a deep and all-encompassing flood of shame. Thomas has the hardest position of the three of us – caught between his two best friends – and I haven't spared a single second over the past week to think about how he's been handling any of this.

I pull back the blankets and pat the spot beside me. "Of course you can."

Thomas crawls into my bed tentatively, lying on his back with his arms and legs kept carefully to himself. "Finally ready to talk to me, then?"

"I'm sorry I was such an asshole." I move my hand over so that it rests on top of his, and his body shifts infinitesimally closer.

"Seems to be a recurring theme," he says, his lips quirking up into a smile. "You being an arse and me forgiving you for it."

"I'd like to say that it won't happen again, but you know how I am with lying."

Thomas finally turns over on his side, propping his head up with his hand. "You're far too noble for your own good, Princess. You've got to learn the value of a proper white lie."

"I don't think I can," I reply, suddenly serious. "Because if I started lying to you, then I'd start lying to myself. And if I start lying to myself, I don't know that I'll ever stop."

"He didn't mean to lie to you, you know." Thomas shifts so that his head is resting against mine, his black hair mixing with my blonde curls. I know that Thomas has both of our interests at heart, but I don't think that he can truly appreciate the betrayal I felt when I finally found out the truth.

"Doesn't change the fact that he did."

"He loves you, you know."

"I know, he told me."

Thomas actually seems a little shocked at that one, so Théo must not have told him. I wonder how our relationship has changed their friendship. Hopefully not enough that it can't return to what it was before. Thomas flips over to his stomach and looks at me, his blue eyes unreadable. "What did you say?"

I look away, concentrating at a crack in the tile at the corner of the room. "I told him I'd help him get his son back." Thomas doesn't say anything for a minute, so I can only assume that Théo's already told him about Carson's involvement.

"Do you love him?" he asks eventually.

"I told him I'd help him get his son back," I repeat, feeling completely drained.

Thomas must notice, because he shifts a little closer and nudges until I turn toward the wall. He pulls me back, so that my head is cradled against his neck and my back is pressed flat against his chest. He doesn't make any lewd comments or drop any unnecessary innuendos. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all. He just runs his hand through my hair, slowly and surely, hugging me tight when my body starts to shake and my breaths come in short pants. He doesn't stop when my breathing finally evens out, and I fall asleep comforted by his gentle touch.

* * *

I don't know how long I'm asleep, but it seems like no time at all when I'm violently pushed from bed by a scrambling Thomas, my ears buzzing with the sound of harshly spat-out French. I had no idea that French could even sound so violent.

"What the _fuck_ is your problem, Tommy?" I hear Théo spit from his place in the doorway.

He doesn't look much better than Thomas, I notice when I'm able to get my head clear and off the ground. He has bright splotches of pink on each cheek and is shaking with unrestrained fury. "You need to get the hell out of here, now," he hisses lowly.

Thomas, who looks torn between shame and sadness, doesn't say anything in retaliation. He just scrambles for his socks, which he must have kicked off while I was sleeping.

"Thomas, this is my house," I bite out, sparing a glare for Théo. "Nobody can make you leave but me."

Thomas pauses mid-movement, and ends up toppling backward with the sock poised to pull over his foot.

"And as for you," I snarl, turning my full attention on Théo. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, barging in my house and throwing some kind of tantrum?"

"Sorry to interrupt," Théo mutters darkly, matching my glare easily. "I came over here to make sure you got back from New York safely. I guess I should have assumed that _someone _would beat me to it." He turns to storm out, but I dart quickly across the room and grab his arm before he can disappear down the stairs.

"Don't think you can just barge in here and scare the shit out of me, scream your head off like some kind of deranged lunatic, and then storm off like Thomas and I have actually done something wrong!"

"Let go of me," Théo barks, yanking his arm away from me. He stumbles a little and flushes bright red as he rights himself.

"I'm serious, Théo," I say, steeling my resolve. "If you don't walk back in this bedroom and have a sensible conversation, then I'm done. I refuse to be screamed at when I did nothing wrong."

Théo glowers, but he doesn't say anything. I turn and breathe a quick sigh of relief when I hear him follow closely behind.

"Now sit," I order when he's fully inside the room. I point to the bed, where Thomas is precariously perched, leaving him no choice in the matter. He listens begrudgingly, but angles his body directly away from Thomas.

I dart out and grab the chair from my study, and roll it over so that I'm facing the two of them.

"So what exactly do you think was going on?" I ask.

Thomas and Théo both shift uncomfortably. "Don't treat me like a child, Jay," Théo says after a pause. "I'm not going to stay if you're not going to treat this like an adult conversation."

"Right, let's act like _adults._ Because adults storm into other adults' houses and start throwing around ridiculous accusations."

"I don't think it's that ridiculous." Théo looks up and his eyes are clouded with pain. His voice stutters, but I refuse to let that influence me. I know he's upset, but he's _wrong. _I can't believe he would think such things about either of us. "I walked in here, terrified that you wouldn't want to talk to me, and I find you wrapped up in Tommy, as if I've gone back in time five months."

"Théo." Thomas shifts, leaning slowly forward to cup his hand on his friend's cheek. His eyes are bright and his voice is suddenly fierce. "I would _never_. You are my family – you know I could never do anything to hurt you."

Théo's shoulders sag and he seems to get smaller as his anger drains away. "_Je sais," _he mumbles under his breath, allowing Thomas to pull him into a hug.

I let them have their moment, and quietly wheel the chair back to its rightful place. When I get back, Thomas is off the bed and ready to leave. "He wants to have a bit of time alone," he says.

I nod and tell him I'll see him later and then walk over and settle on the bed next to Théo.

I take a breath, ready to ask Théo how he could possibly think that I, of all people, would ever cheat on him, but he just crashes into me, knocking the words from my mouth. "I know that was a colossally stupid thing to do," he whispers into my neck, "but I just saw the two of you there and something snapped."

He looks up, tears flowing freely now, staining his red cheeks. "I know I have no right to tell you what to do or who to sleep with," he says, his shoulders shuddering with the effort of holding back. "But, please. Please, don't sleep with Tommy. I don't know if I'll be able to bear it if you do. Watching you kiss him before was painful, doing it now would be torture."

I don't try to move Théo; I just let him burrow into my chest and settle my cheek into his soft hair. "Théo, I'm not going to be sleeping with anybody." I pause for a second, and then my heart squeezes painfully. "Are – are you going to be sleeping with anybody?"

Théo pulls back quickly. "I _love_ you," he says passionately. "If you've already forgotten. I don't want anyone else." He hiccups softly and then pulls back. "I'm not the one who's ending things."

Though the thought sends a shock of pain through my gut, there's really nothing I can say to contradict him. At least I know I'll have some time to try to pull myself together before I have to think of him with someone else.

Still, I can't quite push my mother's words out of my mind. "What about Riley?" I ask softly?

"What about her?"

"If she wanted to patch things up and start over, do you think that you – "

"She could have killed Julien," Théo says angrily. "She had the opportunity to end the pregnancy if she wanted – I would have supported her either way – but she chose to keep him. She chose to pump her body full of drugs and not even attempt to get clean. She refused to accept any of my help. Then she took off from the hospital without even letting me know that he was born and had the balls to show up in court primped and polished and full of bullshit stories about Tommy and me." He looks at me, eyes blazing with anger. "If, by some miracle, she managed to pull her shit together, then I would be happy, because Julien deserves a better mother than he has right now. But there will _never_ be anything between us."

I want to feel relief at Théo's angry outburst, but I can't. All I manage to feel is sadness. Sadness at the fact that Théo has been put through so much, sadness at the fact that I can't make anything better, but most of all sadness knowing that even though it won't be Riley, and it won't be soon, there will come a time when he does move on. There will come a time when he finds someone who isn't selfish or damaged or unwilling to compromise. He'll find someone better than me; better for him and better for Julien. And I'll have no one to blame but myself.

* * *

**Okay, only one chapter left! :D**


	9. Chapter 9

**LOOK, A REAL CHAPTER. A FULL CHAPTER. THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER. Enjoy (stares you down, because that's an order).**

* * *

For the first few days after our confrontation, I don't see much of Thomas or Théo. Thomas pops over around midnight the night after to give me a quick kiss on the cheek and to drop off some red velvet cupcakes he'd picked up on his way home from work. On the way out he invites me to a party, but I respectfully decline and spend the rest of the night alternately trying to duplicate the bakery's red velvet recipe and washing dishes until my hands are chapped before falling into bed at seven a.m.

Carson's minivan is permanently parked in Théo's drive, and I can always catch Lila through the window, running along the beach with her two little monsters and Julien in tow. I don't really know what's happened to the custody agreement, but I can only assume that in light of Riley's actions, the case manager has allowed Julien to spend some time with his father. The twins seem to be treating Julien like some kind of pet or play toy, toddling along so fast that Julien's chubby little legs are a blur trying to keep up. The blonde-haired boys flank him like body guards, reaching around his curly head to steal toys from each other and present them to their new friend. I'm working my way through a new dessert book, so I don't really have time (or the inclination) to stare out the window and document his every move, but the small snatches I do manage to observe make me so anxious for Julien's bare feet that I eventually have to pull down all the blinds and bake without any natural light. I mean, there's _glass _on the beach. And dog crap. Plus, the UV index has been unreasonably high these past few days, and I've noticed that Julien never seems to have his hat on for more than thirty seconds at a time. I debate calling Théo to ask him why his kid never seems to be properly attired, but I don't want to give him the wrong idea.

Théo hasn't emerged – or if he has it's been during one of my many naps – so I can only assume that he's hard at work. A small flare of resentment threatens to work its way through my system, so every so often I need to pull the blinds away for an instant to remind myself that there's an actual _child _– a living, breathing, floppy-haired child in the equation, and that this is bigger than a petty break-up.

Truthfully, I have a hard time conceptualizing the whole idea that our relationship is over. Unlike the first days after Alec's departure, I keep busy. So busy, in fact, that I catch myself several times over those first days about to walk across the yard. I pick up my phone and start typing a text before I realize that I'm supposed to leave Théo alone. I debate asking Carson out for dinner, just so I can have an excuse to go next door and pick him up, but I know that it's a stupid, selfish thought. Parading myself in front of Théo is the last thing he needs right now, especially when he's so stressed.

On the third day, I run out of supplies. I've completely depleted my supply of milk, flour, and vanilla, and I still have a chapter on puddings and ice creams to get through. I tidy up the dishes that are left over from the chapter on pies and grab my keys so that I can head out to the grocery store. It's almost dinnertime – time flies when you're eating everything in sight, apparently – and the lines at the grocery store are going to be brutal, but I really can't think of anything better to do.

I pull the door open quickly, and with my body half twisted to make sure I've turned off the lights and half propelled toward the car, I connect with something solid.

"Is this a bad time?" Théo's voice interrupts my slew of apologies, and I twist to look at him so fast that something in my neck makes an ominous cracking sound.

"I, uh. _Ow._" I run my hand over the back of my neck, pressing my fingers into the tingling muscle, and resist the urge to pull out my phone and text my sister. "I was uh, store," I finish lamely. Really, it's a good thing I've taken a break from practicing to settle into my teaching position – I don't think I could win an argument with a sleepy six year old right now.

"I could come back." Théo lifts his eyes from the ground, and I almost crick my neck a second time.

He looks _awful_. There are dark circles under his eyes and a patchy, half-grown beard that's nothing like his usual stubble. His skin is pale and waxen and his head is hanging forward as if its weight might drag his entire body to the ground at any minute. I ball my fists at my sides and press my back to the door, resisting the urge pull him close and comfort him.

"No, no. It's not important. Do you want, or should – will this take a minute?" I twist the knob and stumble back into the porch, Westley running to nip at my heels.

"Sure." Théo follows me inside, bending down for a moment to pull Westley into his arms. He murmurs something into the dog's fur and is rewarded with a series of licks across his cheek and forehead. He doesn't look at me again until we're both seated in the living room.

He keeps Westley close, petting him rhythmically, absentmindedly, from his head down to his tail. "I came to ask you a favor."

"Sure, anything," I say eagerly, wanting to do anything to wipe the haunted look off his face. A look that's my fault.

He grimaces and I freeze. A hundred reasons why Théo looks so pained cross my mind, and most of them center around him deciding to reconcile with Riley, her moving in next door, and having to watch the two of them walk down the beach swinging a delighted Julien between them. "It's Riley," he starts, and my jaw clenches so hard that my teeth make an ominous grinding sound that startles Westley. Thankfully Théo either doesn't notice or decides to ignore it. "We wanted her to meet out of court to come up with a mutual agreement, one that we could then present to the judge with minimal hassle. She's agreed to meet, but she'll only do it tonight." He glances down at his pocket watch – a family heirloom – and grimaces again. "In twenty-five minutes, actually. I'm pretty sure she only said yes because I have Julien until tomorrow and she wanted to interrupt the last bit of time we had together."

My face feels like it's stuck, frozen in an abject sort of horror and Théo starts to backpedal.

"Of course, it's very short notice and you were just on the way to the shop – "

"I just, I don't know if I'm qualified. I mean, shouldn't someone he knows, like Lila or Thomas be a better fit?"

"Lila's gone out with a friend," he says miserably. "Taken the twins with her. And Tommy…" He hesitates, running his free hand over the cover of his watch. "Tommy has a date."

"A date?" I reply flatly. "He's blowing this off to have sex?"

"No, a _date._"

"A date." We sound like characters in an Ionesco play. I debate saying this to Théo, just to see if he'll smile, maybe look a little like he used to, but I'm too preoccupied by the thought of Thomas on an actual date to force out the words.

"I overheard him on the phone," Théo admits, the faintest hint of a grin pulling at the corners of his lips. "Stumbling over his words…it was sweet."

"Sweet?" I sound like a fucking parrot, but I honestly don't have the mental capacity to process this information right now.

"_Oui,"_ Théo responds. The small slip tells me more about his mental state than anything else. There are only two things that make Théo revert to French: fatigue and, well, I really don't have the mental capacity to process thoughts like _those _either.

Théo continues on, oblivious to my mental distress. "I didn't ask him to babysit because I know he'll cancel; he's probably looking for any reason at all to cancel. But if you don't feel comfortable –"

"It's not that," I blurt, not wanting to screw up anybody else's love life. "It's just, well, I'm not exactly qualified. I mean, I know CPR and basic self-defense and I don't really have a weak stomach, but –"

"Jay, he's a toddler not a member of witness protection. Give him some dinner and maybe some Tupperware to play with. He doesn't need a ninja, just a set of eyes to make sure he doesn't try to eat any stray dog poop."

Théo's phone goes off and I find myself desperate to see him again, to not let this be the end of our conversation so I agree. The smile that breaks out on his face at the news almost makes the instant anxiety worth it.

"I'll bring him right over," Théo says as he rushes out the door, leaving a slack-jawed, stupefied, shell of an ex-boyfriend behind.

As soon as he's out of sight I run to my office and start typing furiously into Google. I figure that dinner is my main obstacle, so that's where I concentrate my efforts. I bring up the first two pages that look legit – _Food your 18 month-old actually wants to eat _and _Foods that can be unsafe for your child_ – and hit print. I run to the kitchen and spread them out across the island, highlighting some of the objects in my fridge and wondering how the hell I'm supposed to get my hands on some whole milk in the next forty-five seconds. I running back to my office to put in an online grocery order, but Théo's back and ringing the doorbell with a vengeance.

"Hello again," I say, opening the door to find myself face to face with Julien, who is still pressing the doorbell, and letting out a burst of giggles with each new noise.

Théo has Julien propped in one arm, a bag slung over his shoulder, and some sort of contraption trapped under his free armpit, but he manages to navigate to the kitchen with the grace of a dancer. I follow closely behind, my arms stretching out reflexively whenever Julien wobbles to the side, and wishing I had some Ativan.

The bit of plastic turns out to be a portable highchair, which Théo lays gently on the table along with the bag. He glances over at the lists and smiles softly.

"I don't have any whole milk," I announce with the same gravity and shame I'd had when I told my mother I was moving from New York to Las Vegas.

Théo blushes. "I know what milk you drink," he says softly and turns to rifle through the enormous black bag on my counter. "I brought some from home." He pulls open one of the four doors of my industrial-grade refrigerator before I have the chance to intercept.

"Jay, what the hell," he murmurs, pulling open the other doors.

I look at the shelves and shelves of perfectly packaged desserts, flabbergasted myself at the sheer _volume. _All but two shelves have been commandeered by the entire contents of my new dessert cookbook. Théo places Julien on the floor, where he immediately toddles over to Westley, who has thus far been watching the scene unfurl with the quasi-judgmental disinterest I often reserve for my mother and very fluffy cats.

Théo wedges the bottle in between my stack of yogurt and stalk of broccoli and then closes all the doors. "Are you okay?" he asks, his face once again drawn and serious.

"I'm fine," I say stiffly. "I was just bored."

"Bored?" Théo glances at the bare cupboards and then picks up my hands – still raw from the constant kneading and scrubbing – and places them against his cheeks. He murmurs something low and French and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my sore skin.

"That's not fair," I whisper. "Speaking French is like keeping a secret."

"There are some things you'd rather not hear, I think," Théo replies softly.

I open my mouth to answer, but the sound of a horn blaring in the driveway startles Théo into dropping my hands, and the moment has passed.

"His milk is fine as is, and you can just give him some of whatever you're eating," Théo says. He glances at the paper again. "But it looks like Mindful Mommies has you all covered on that front."

"Shut up," I counter, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. "You'll have your cell?"

"Yes, call me if you need anything." He bends over and runs his cheek along Julien's hair and murmurs a short goodbye and then he's gone. I hear the thud of a car door and then silence.

I glance over at Julien, who's looking at the door with a wobbly sort of frown, and I dash for the fridge. Milk. Milk first, then food. I glance at the clock and then throw a half-assed prayer out into the universe, just in case there's anyone listening.

* * *

"Papa?" Julien says with his reedy lisp. His eyes are locked on the closed door and his tiny hands are balled into fists.

Panicked, I do the only thing I can think of and drop to the floor beside him. Ignoring the fact that Westley rubs his butt over this section of floor on an hourly basis, I scoot over toward Julien and reach out tentatively. "Papa's coming back soon." I try to reassure him with an awkward pat on the shoulder.

He looks anything but convinced and his lip wobbles a little more. "Papa," he whimpers piteously, and my stress level skyrockets at the sound. I slip a little on the floor, and by some miracle Westley thinks that it means I want to play. He skitters over to me, head down and butt in the air, his tail wagging furiously. As soon as he yips Julien's wobbly frown transforms into another of the full-bodied giggles he'd made when pressing the doorbell.

"You want to play with the puppy?" I ask, relief bubbling up so quickly that I think for a minute I may be sick. "Let's play fetch," I continue, reaching across the floor to pull a ball out of Westley's bed.

As Westley rockets across the floor, Julien squeals with delight. There's color high in his chubby cheeks and his eyes crinkle exactly like his father's. I watch him for a second, searching for some sign of Riley in his face, but I'm pleased to find that I can only see Théo. "Ball!" he says proudly when Westley comes to drop it at my feet.

"Ball," I agree, handing it over to him to see if he'll continue the game. He does, and he sends Westley scrambling across the kitchen once more. Unwilling to let this kind of opportunity pass me by, I hop back to my feet and toward the fridge, hoping that I can prepare something for supper before the novelty of fetch fades.

By the time Westley decides he's had enough, I've managed to warm up four different sets of leftovers and attach Julien's mutant highchair to the edge of the table. I feel like the contraption is an accident waiting to happen, but that's where Théo wanted me to put him, so that's where he's going. The last thing I need is for him to fall off one of my chairs and end this little visit in the emergency room.

Since pureed foods seem to be the safest option, the first thing I place in front of him is a bowl of squash soup. It's warm (but not hot) and smells delicious. I take a spoonful of my own and smile widely, hoping that toddlers aren't perceptive enough to discern between enthusiasm and borderline mania. "Yummmm," I say, licking my lips. "Delicious."

Julien dips a tentative finger in, completely ignoring his own spoon, and makes his own exaggerated face of disgust once he crams it in his mouth. I reach to lift the bowl away, but apparently I'm no match for toddler reflexes and the bowl is upside down on the floor before I can do anything. Westley, always ready to pounce, is lapping up the mess in less than five seconds. "Mmmmm, 'licious," Julien parrots as the dog slurps away happily.

The salmon, spinach ravioli, and garlic mashed potatoes also end up being resounding failures. By some toddler witchcraft, Julien manages to get bits and pieces of each of the three stuck on his face, caught in his hair, and flung on the floor, but none actually go in his mouth. The only thing he'll consent to ingesting is the milk Théo brought over, and I have no idea what to do.

Panicked at the prospect of having to tell Théo that I managed to turn his son from food in a mere forty-minute period, I do the only thing I can think of: call my sister.

"What do you give an eighteen month old child who won't eat anything?" I say as soon as she picks up the phone.

"Jay?"

"No, it's your other brother, Steve. This is not the time for stupid questions, Em. I need an answer."

Emma, long used to talking people down from crises is completely unruffled by my squawking. "Why do you have an eighteen month old child?"

"Food, Emma! I need food."

"Calm down, Jay," she says, pulling out her full-fledged Soothing Therapist Voice. "Whichever toddler you've kidnapped has probably eaten sometime in the past three days, so I think you have ten seconds to tell me what's going on."

"I don't think he's going to starve. I just don't want to have Théo – "

"Théo?" Emma's voice wavers for the first time. "You're feeding Théo's kid?"

"There was an emergency and he asked me for a favor, what was I supposed to do?"

I can hear Emma's small cluck of annoyance. "Say no? I mean, you broke up with the guy precisely for this reason and somehow he's conned you into playing nanny? I mean, I'm the only one in the family who isn't professionally paranoid, but that sounds a little suspicious to me."

"It's not like that," I counter sharply. Théo had a family emergency and I volunteered to help." It's barely a white lie, and I've always been blessed with a knack for deception.

Emma's voice turns softer, more sincere. "I just don't want you to get hurt," she says. "I don't want things to be like they were after Alec."

A pulse of anger burns through me at the association. I look over at Julien, who is happily tossing pieces of mashed potato at Westley's waiting mouth. So much for not giving the dog any table food. It hurts to think of how much Théo has had to sacrifice for this little boy; what I've forced him to sacrifice. "Théo is _nothing_ like Alec."

Emma's small _yeah _is almost lost in the echo of the long-distance call.

"Can you just help me, Em? I really want to get some food into this kid."

"When you were little you refused to eat anything but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into special shapes. Do you have any cookie cutters?"

"Peanut butter? You want me to give him peanut butter? What if he has some kind of anaphylactic reaction?"

"Did Théo tell you he was allergic to anything?"

"No, but that doesn't mean he _isn't._ He could have just forgotten."

Emma snorts. "Believe me, he didn't forget."

Irritation sweeps through me, compounding my frustration, and I have to work to keep my voice down. "So now you're a Théo expert?"

"No, Jay," Emma says, "I'm a _parent_. If the kid was allergic to anything, Théo would have told you, I promise."

And that's really what it comes down to, isn't it? Théo is a parent, I'm not. I can't get Julien to eat one meal and I have to rely on my puppy to keep him entertained. Emma doesn't know Théo or Julien, and she can do a better job over the phone than I can do in person. I've never been interesting, patient, or selfless enough to care for another human being. I can't even cut it as a last-resort babysitter.

Emma's voice rises, jolting me out of my ruminations. "Hmm?"

"I said you should just call him," she repeats. "If you're worried."

"No, you're right," I say hastily, not wanting to let her convince me to call Théo. What if he leaves his meeting? What if he never trusts me again after this? "Théo would never let anything happen to his son." I pause, staring at the loaf of bread on my counter. "Should the sandwich be toasted?"

"Jesus Christ," Emma sighs, and then proceeds to walk me through the finer points of a perfect toddler PB and J.

By the time I hang up Julien has run out of spare bits of potato to fling at the floor, and is shrieking and wagging his arms. "Down!" he says insistently, his lip curled up in a pout that is a perfect imitation of his father. Though I've never been swayed by the machinations of toddlers in the past, only focusing on the drool and the snot and the dirty diapers, there's no way I can deny the way that that particular face tugs at my chest. Julien may have been raised in America, but that expression is one hundred percent French.

"All right, out," I answer, lifting him from the confines of the plastic chair. I set him down on the floor and he waddles behind toward the counter. As I take out the jars of peanut butter and jelly, he tugs on the side of my pants. "Me up!" he says. He pauses as if considering something, and then tacks on a mangled "please?"

Suspicious that he's actually some kind of diabolical genius with a mind-control device, I pick him up and place him carefully on the counter, boxing him in with one arm and reaching for the bread with the other. He seems content to watch and stays surprisingly still as I wait for the toast to pop. He babbles, though I'm not sure if it's a stream of French or just baby-talk. When the sandwich is ready, I put him back on the floor to cut the crusts and cut the sandwich into an approximation of a star. By the time he's noticed what's happened, I thrust the food in front of his face.

He takes the sandwich out of my hands gingerly and flips it over, examining it like he's completing some grand scientific inquiry. He squeezes it between his pudgy fingers and a glob of grape jelly trickles onto the floor. I wince involuntarily, but Westley the Hoover is over and has disappeared all traces before I can get a dishcloth. Julien giggles and then crams one of the star's pointed ends into his mouth. I nearly collapse with relief as he chews and swallows the first bite. By the time he's finished there are smears of peanut butter on my fridge and a purple stain on my pantry door, but Julien is full and content and I figure that they can wait until Théo comes to pick him up.

* * *

Théo was right about Julien not needing a lot of direct guidance. He toddles all over the house, pulling down objects he finds interesting and rifling through the books he finds on my bookshelf. Inspired by his enthusiasm, I direct him toward my bedroom, where I've been keeping a stash of books that I haven't got around to sending to Emma.

"Book!" Julien squeals with excitement; another way he's like his father. "Book!"

"Book indeed," I reply, grabbing a handful.

With the prospect of a book on the horizon, Julien completely settles down. In fact, he pulls himself up onto the sofa and curls his tiny body into mine, his head resting against my stomach, at the perfect height for pointing to all the pictures. I shift awkwardly, not wanting to make him upset, but a little unsure about what I should be doing. He doesn't make a sound, except to sometimes repeat words after me, and by the time we make it through four of the small, cardboard books, he's fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Are you sleepy?" I make the mistake of asking.

Abruptly Julien is ramrod straight with his eyes peeled open as widely as possible. "No," he says resolutely.

Dumbfounded by the abrupt change of pace, I can't do anything but stare at him.

"No!" he shouts again, looks toward me with a wide look of betrayal. I've been stared down by vicious opposing council and none of them have ever made me feel as guilty as this one-and-half-year-old. I am so far out of my depth.

I fire off a quick text to Emma, pleading again for advice.

_Put on some TV? _

_Should little kids watch TV?_

_His mother's a crack addict…pretty sure a half an hour of Toopy and Binoo isn't going to kill him. _

A fair enough point, but I have absolutely no idea what a Toopy or Binoo is supposed to be. I decide to ask Julien's opinion. "Would you like to go watch some TV?" I ask innocently, figuring that if I have to deal with his blatant manipulation, then he can stand a little of mine.

His sleepy eyes perk up a little at the prospect of TV. Afraid that if he falls asleep on the couch, he might roll over and break an arm, I convince him to watch television in the bedroom, promising ardently that there will be absolutely no sleeping.

Once he's settled in, I pile a bunch of pillows along his side, boxing him into the center of the bed. I take a place on top of the blankets beside him, ready to subject myself to the absolutely terrifying mindfuck that is children's programming.

* * *

I wake up feeling panicked and disoriented, with Théo's hand on my shoulder. I shoot up from the bed, heart pounding, just to see Théo staring down at me with a familiar hollowed-out look. I glance quickly at Julien, but he's fine and sleeping soundly.

"I let him watch TV," I whisper. "And I didn't have a little toothbrush, so he didn't brush his teeth. Plus, he's a horrible Frenchman and wouldn't eat any prepared meals, so I had to feed him _peanut butter_. Théo leans down and presses his finger to my lips.

"It's okay," he says, settling down on the bed beside me. "Thank you for doing this."

He leans forward slightly, and I prop myself up to meet him. "It wasn't that bad," I murmur back, surprised to find that I'm telling the truth. I know I'll have to scrub down the kitchen when Théo leaves and that it may take a few hours for my heart rate to settle, but at least no one was seriously injured.

"Nice pillow fort," Théo says finally, apparently needing to look anywhere but directly at me.

Stupid with sleep and emboldened by my fear of watching him walk out the door without me, I run my hand along his arm. "I miss you," I divulge quietly, knowing but not caring that this is an acutely unfair proclamation.

"I miss you so much," Théo answers, leaning in to rest his face against my neck. His patchy beard scrapes against the skin, and he shifts slightly so that his lips are pressed lightly into the curve of my neck. He leaves a short, wet kiss on the sensitive skin, and I can't stop myself from shuddering.

Julien coughs lightly, and Théo backs away quickly, as if he didn't realize what he had been doing. He walks over to the opposite side of the bed and scoops his son into his arms, murmuring softly for him to go back to sleep.

"I'm sorry," he says, pausing at the door.

"No, don't be sorry," I scramble to reason with him. "Don't ever be sorry, for anything."

Julien snuggles closer and Théo smiles absently. "It won't happen again," he says firmly. "I know that this is not what you want."

He turns and walks out of the room before I have a chance to answer. I realize, once I hear the front door close, that I didn't even ask about how the meeting had gone.

* * *

I find out about the meeting not from Théo, but Thomas. He stops by after lunch the next day, and uses all the information he has about my ex-boyfriend to get out of talking about his mysterious date. He remains so steadfastly closed-lipped that I have no choice but to believe that he may actually be _serious_ about the guy.

Unfortunately, the news about Théo and Riley is much less encouraging than Thomas's dating prospects. Riley, annoyed that Théo and Carson managed to make the meeting at all, was completely hostile to all of their suggestions and came prepared with questions about Théo's lifestyle choices and stories about Thomas's lechery.

"It was my fault last time," Thomas says miserably, poking at the brownie he fished out of my fridge. "Maybe if I moved out that would give him a better chance."

"Don't be an idiot!" I stop, taking in the lines of misery etched clearly into Thomas's boyish face. It's perverse, seeing him in a state like this; he's supposed to be the one's who's happy. Even if Théo and I are fucked up, we need Thomas to pull us through. "Théo didn't say anything, did he?"

"You know he wouldn't," Thomas says, pushing the brownie away. "He's probably never even considered it. He's a better person than I am."

"And me," I agree, thinking of how he drove me to the hospital when we first met, even though I was a complete asshole to him.

"It's just, I haven't lived away from him since I was a teenager." He draws in, circling his arms around his knees. "I'm a selfish bastard, and I don't want to be without him."

Though I don't say so, I can completely understand the feeling.

"This is all _her _fault," he sneers, his face twisted and grim. "The drug-addled slag."

As much as I would love to hear more about Riley and how she came into the picture, all I really want is to help Thomas. "You're always welcome here."

Thomas smiles, but shakes his head. "That would kill him, you know it would. Losing Julien would break his heart, but so will thinking of us living together here." He claps his hands against his legs and rises from the table. "If I have to go, it must be on my own." He leans in and kisses me swiftly on the cheek. "You're allowed to still drop by, you know. I know he'd be happy if you did."

"Doesn't seem fair," I reply, taking up his discarded fork and shoveling some brownie into my mouth. "Not when I'm the one who called it off."

Thomas shrugs, looking like he wants to say more, but his cell goes off and he hurries out the door, the tips of his ears suspiciously pink.

* * *

The next day gets off to a more auspicious start than the rest of the week. For once, I get up at seven-thirty, like a functioning human being, and actually send a few emails. Since I'm not teaching a class in the fall semester, I'll be helping out with some paperwork and working in an advisory capacity with my old firm in Las Vegas, and it feels good to do something productive. I've also signed up for an online French class. After all, it's a little embarrassing to be surrounded by friends who can speak multiple languages when I'm restricted to one.

The real surprise comes around eleven o'clock, when I get a phone call from my mother. My mother, who usually sends an email to let me know when she'll be available to talk, never calls during the day. So, with my heart pounding, I scramble to pick up the phone.

"Hello?" I say tentatively, preparing for the worst.

"Happy Birthday, James," she proclaims in her closest approximation of a gush. "I had hoped to be able to visit for your thirtieth, but you know how things can get with work."

The comment goes completed unnoticed in the light of a bigger realization. My birthday. It's my thirtieth birthday. I must have looked at the date fifty times this morning and not once did this fact register. How sad must my life be that it takes a phone call from my mother to remind me that I'm turning thirty? Most people plan a big bash; my biggest plan is to download a documentary about natural disasters and eat the remaining brownies in my fridge.

"Do you have big plans for tonight?"

"Absolutely," I lie. If my mother finds out the truth she'll call Emma, and then Emma will call me, and that is not how I'd like to spend this birthday. "Thomas is taking me to dinner and then we're going to a party with some of his friends."

"How lovely. Is Thomas from the University?"

"Thomas is my neighbor, Mother," I sigh, punching at my keyboard. "Théo's roommate."

My mother doesn't answer, but rather draws out a long-winded sigh. "I do hope you're getting out and meeting new people, sweetheart," she says after a tick. "You've had your first fling after your engagement, and now it's time to think seriously. You're no longer in your twenties, you know."

Yes, for all of nine hours. In order to keep myself from saying some choice words that I've never dared utter in my mother's presence, I quickly make up an excuse and hang up the phone. Then I turn it off and throw it in my desk drawer. If anyone else wants to wish me a happy birthday they can do so via email or in person.

I spend the next few hours vacillating between wanting to call my mother back and ask her how _dare _she think Théo was some sort of fling, some sort of _dalliance_ to just fill the space until I was over Alec and wondering if that's how I treated him. Wondering if that's what he thinks too. Seeing him last night was like a knife between my ribs, and the sharp pulse of pain returns whenever I think of his too-dark eyes and his too-white skin. When Alec ended things I thought I'd never feel the same about anyone, and maybe that was true, but what I felt – what I _feel_ – for Théo is incomparable.

Alec was the equivalent of a manic-pixie boyfriend; someone I felt I had helped _fix_, that I had somehow made better with my love. I had wholeheartedly believed that we would be together forever, but now that I've had a chance to really love someone for all his flaws and faults and irritating habits, I know that the two are incomparable. Théo may be a cantankerous, pretentious hipster, but he's _my _cantankerous, pretentious hipster.

Alec was a crutch while Théo was an anchor. We saved each other.

As if manifested by my thoughts, Théo's voice echoes in the quiet emptiness of my house and my heart thuds painfully in my chest. "Jay?"

"Living room," I call out, furiously smoothing my hair and hoping I don't still look incredibly pissed off.

Théo creeps in and takes a seat beside me. He looks better than yesterday – clean-shaven and dressed in something nicer than a yogurt-stained t-shirt – but there's really no way to dress away the dark circles and lines of pain that seem permanently etched in his face. He's too young to look so defeated. Still, he smiles and reaches out to take one of my hands in his. "We need to talk," he says. "I want you to come to the house with me."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Théo nods, resolute. "Thomas is out and Julien is with his grandparents." He looks up, suddenly shy. "I mean, you don't have to, but I would like it if you did."

I flick off the TV and stand, heart pounding. "Sure," I say, trying to think back to a time when I had grace under pressure. "If that's what you want."

We don't talk on our way to the house. Théo keeps glancing to the side, as if to convince himself that I'm real, and I don't know what to say to break the awkward silence. When we get to the door he stops and takes a fortifying breath, then reaches out to grab my hand.

The house is dim when he pulls me inside. There's an arrangement of Chinese takeout on the table, along with a small package in confetti wrapping paper, and a lopsided cake with light blue frosting. There are tiny birthday hats by each plate.

It's a _birthday supper._ I can't even remember ever telling Théo when my birthday was. I can't believe, with everything else he has going on, that this is what he spent his afternoon doing.

"Théo, what –"

Théo cuts off my choked up question by gently running his fingers up my arm. "You have three choices," he says softly, his fingers still moving. "You can take the present, leave, and forget that this ever happened. You could also sit down for dinner, talk to me about what's been going on and then go home." He pauses and his fingers tremble a little against my skin. "Or," he continues, "we could take a pause from this nightmare and just for one night pretend that everything is back to normal." He looks up at me, fierce and broken and brave. "I know that it's stupid and that tomorrow when you leave it's going to hurt like hell, but _merde, tu me manques."_ He reaches out and cups my face in his hands, and I fall into him, pretending, as he suggested, that everything is normal.

The kiss is electric, but it's also _easy._ His skin is searing hot against mine, and the rise and fall of his chest is like a song that's been stuck in the back of my head, trying its best to make its way back to the surface. At the first press of lips I really can feel the weight of these past weeks falling away. Kissing Théo feels like heaven. Kissing Théo feels like coming home.

"I was thinking," I pant, guiding him toward the steps as he mouths across my jaw, "of a fourth option." I grin, hoisting him up and pinning him against the wall, loving his short gasp. "I prefer my Chinese cold."

* * *

**Yes, a sexytimes cliffhanger. Because I may have posted a chapter, but I'm still a bit of an asshole ;) See you soon, lovely readers, and thanks for sending me only sweet messages wishing me well instead of harassing me about sucking it up. **


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